Of Past Dances and Future Tears
by kitty1
Summary: It's an Abby'n'Luka'n'Maggie'n'Carter thang...Read and Reply as I know not what I do:)
1. Forgive and Forget

'Past Dances and Future Tears:'

'Forgive and Forget?'

Rating: A big fat 'A:A' for Angst of the Abby kind.

Spoilers: Up through to present day season 7-ish.

Disclaimer: The only thing I lay claim to is my imagination. The rest is entirely an NBC thing. 

Authors Notes: Okee...this is an Abby'n'Luka'n'Maggie'n'Carter thing. What, you mean you haven't read one of those before? Well, then sit back and get your favorite snack food out, 'cos here goes nuthin'...

Ok, I'll admit it, I have a problem: My name is Kitty and I live for feedback:

Aphrodite298@aol.com

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"Please watch out for each other and forgive everybody. It's a good life. Enjoy it."

- Jim Henson

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The sight of Luka pacing up and done in front of me in his boxers, with that pouty Croatian look on his face is usually something of a spectacle. An image that I wouldn't mind being greeted to every single morning of my life, and the next few lives I intend to have after this one, that's for sure.

But, right now, all I want is for him to pick up his trousers, find that goddamn belt of his, have his hair looking a little less abused and have him on the El Train, now. In fact I could have done with him in the seat next to me, frowning over the New York Times Crossword with all his clothes on half an hour ago, but any hopes I had of that are gone.

"Luka?" I hate winging. I hate whining. He knows this.

"Yes Abby? What is it, Abby?" He says without looking up from the sock drawer that he's emptying. 

What is it Abby? The possibility of Weaver having you hung drawn and quartered in front of the rest of the world for being half an hour late doesn't appeal to you, Abby? Just which part of being fired don't you enjoy, Abby?

"Luka...it's half six." Good. Not as whiney.

He takes a second to glance up at me, "I know that Abby."

I sigh. For the hundredth time since I awoke to discover that he'd forgotten to set the alarm this morning. He can be such an... inconsiderate prick sometimes. I could kill him. In fact I'm obligated to kill him.

Bitter? Me?

I check my hair one more time in the hall mirror before glancing back at him. His shirts coming on, and now he's going to spend fifteen minutes hunting down his hair gel, which, whenever he's not looking I tend to accidentally shove deep down behind the bed. Hey, maybe he'll get the hint. But, seeing as he won't step outside without his head looking like a bad case of Jerry Garcia, I hand it to him, and watch as his hair goes from bad to critical. With the amount he uses on it I sometimes wonder if he isn't personally supporting the entire Bryl cream counter.

Well, it's not my hair, I think as I follow him out of the door and into the windiest morning Chicago's ever experienced. According to some half smiling weatherman on TV. 

Could my life possibly get any better?

We make a run for the train platform, not having uttered one word to each other since we left home...well, so long as you're not counting grunting and the occasional obscene word aimed at the world in general.

"Abby?"

I open my eyes, my vision narrowed into a train map and Luka's head. Dammit, did he find that hair gel again?

"Abby, we're here." He says tugging gently at my hand.

I grunt and remove my head from his shoulder, tugging back on his hand.

As we make our way to County we discuss plans for tonight, some TV special and the many excuses we could use to save our sorry asses from the wrath of Weaver.

Abducted by aliens tops my list. 

As we walk in hand in hand, we evaluate the mass of patients, and with as much conspicuousness as his reflective hair will allow, make a dive into the Locker room.

Forty-five minutes late.

I wince as I think of the gratuitous acts of cruelty that we have no doubt earned from Weaver. I can look forward to a long week of rectals on all those charming people who have forgotten to bathe sometime during this past decade.

Great. Greatgreatgreatgreat...

All this is forgotten as suddenly my lips are greeted to the warmth of his. I sigh letting them linger there for several seconds before smiling back up at him.

"Am I forgiven?" He asks, a smile on his lips.

I shrug with my own half-smile; as he leans in to make sure all his crimes of bad hair and bad timing are absolved by my lips. 

Sighing he turns to leave, a white lab jacket being shrugged on one arm.

Before he departs back into the madness that is County and makes pretend that he's been here since he's supposed to have been, I pull his face into mine and leave him with the lingering taste of Colgate and black coffee to contend to, before he manages a hasty exit into the real world.

Sighing, I return my gaze to my locker, pick up my trusty stethoscope, and throw it around my neck as I turn to leave.

"Oh, hey Carter." I mutter at the motionless figure drowning his sorrows in a cup of the blackest coffee I've ever seen, by the lounge doorway. I must have missed him when I came in.

He looks up at me, a smile flickering across his thoughtful face. He shifts his gaze to the slam of Luka's door, and then quickly returns it to mine. "Weren't you guys supposed to be here...some time that's before now?"

I smile and nod, "He, uh, he forgot to set the alarm." He nods his head, as though it were a stupid question, and returns his gaze to his coffee. "Carter...you OK?"

He lifts his gaze to mine again, "Uh, sure Abby I'm fine. Just, y'know, thinking."

I nod, "Happy things?" 

He smiles again, with a slow nod. "Always."

"Yeah?...anything in particular?" Damn my curiosity. 

He starts, as if about to admit something, but quickly purses his lips with a sigh. "Uh, raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens?" I smile and turn to leave. "See you on rounds Abby."

I sigh as I open the door. "Always."

I cringe as I catch a sight of Jerry holding the phone out towards me, as though it were a poisonous snake. Guess who Abby.

"You're mom's on line three."

I force a smile at Jerry, as Randy quickly finds several precious nail filing moments to moodily shove me a stack of charts. Thanking her, I pick up the phone and take a deep breath.

"Abby?"

Oh god. Weaver.

I can hear my mom already talking, rambling on and on about something she needs me to do yesterday, and I force a friendly grin at Weaver.

"You believe in the existence of extra-terrestrials, Weaver...?"

* * * * *

My horoscope warned me this would happen. 

That forgiveness was something that only I would have today, that the rabbit hole was about to get a lot deeper, that I would have to rely on those close to me to maintain that fragile grip on sanity that I have. My horoscope told me that things would hurt today and that the ones that I loved most would screw with me more than was necessary.

It told me this, and I screwed it into a ball and missed the trashcan.

Apparently I should put more trust in to the effects that bits of rock millions and billions of miles away from me will have on my life.

My mom's crying. 

In front of me, in front of my colleagues, which wouldn't be so bad, if this were Oprah. But the patients are getting scared, even Romano's throwing me sympathy gazes and she won't stop. 

I keep telling her that it's OK. That thus far in my medical career I haven't had one person whose smashed their hand through a window die on me, and that I'm pretty positive that she's not going to be the first.

But she doesn't stop. 

"Maggie? Mom, it's OK. Everything's OK, it's just glass, just let me put some of this antiseptic lotion on...yes it does sting, but hold still OK? No Maggie, we don't give morphine for lacerations. Hold still mom."

She's drunk. And it doesn't look like she's been paying much attention to that prescription of hers either. Which is perfect. But since when has she ever considered anyone else's feelings over her own?

She keeps saying she's sorry. That she's sorry for being a bitch, she's sorry Abby, she's really sorry. And that she's sorry for being so stupid, she doesn't know why she did it, she doesn't, Abby. She's sorry for the way I am, for the way we are, she's so sorry Abby.

Abby, does Abby forgive her?

"Mom, just keep quiet it'll be over in a sec, OK?"

Does Abby forgive her? She needs Abby to forgive her.

Abby doesn't say anything. 

I can't say anything. If I were to open my mouth it would only add to the screaming. I can't handle any more screaming.

Maggie pulls her half sutured hand away from me, the needle clinging on for dear life, glares at me, and continues to ask me, continues to need to know if I'm sorry. If Abby forgives her.

Abby still says nothing. I begin to open my mouth, and I can see Luka come up behind her. He talks soothingly to her, his voice thick with compassion, and a sense of velvet walls and clear skies. I wonder why I never get to hear that voice.

I watch them. My mother is still crying, her shrill sobs not leaving one corner of the hospital empty. I've once heard a dog that's been in pain cry like that. Endlessly, hopelessly, not caring what the neighbors threw at it to keep it quiet.

Does Abby forgive her? She needs Abby to forgive her. Please, Abby. Abby, tell me that, Abby, say you forgive me Abby, say you forgive me. Over and over again, until the words blur into one pitch. One word. ForgivemeAbbyforgivemeAbbyforgivemeAbbyforgivemeAbbyforgivemeAbby

God.

"You want me to forgive you, mom? Forgive you for everything you've done to me? Will that make you happy?"

She gets angry. Pushes Luka aside to stand directly in front of me. I freeze.

I will not cry. I will not cry. I will not cry.

"What the hell have I done to you Abby, huh?! What horrible crime have I committed? Tell me. I want to know! You're a nurse; you have a life, a home, huh? Not so bad for someone who had a witch for a mother, huh?! You have a great life and that has nothing to do with me."

Her anger fuels my anger, and everything that I've been holding back since she has arrived floods out in a stream of words, exclamation marks and tears.

"You think that this is great mom? You think that I want to be here stitching up my incoherent manic-depressive mom?! Do you think that I chose to be an alcoholic?! Is *that* a great thing to be?! Or how about when I was seven and had to cover my head with a pillow so that I couldn't hear you screaming to yourself, or-or hear you screwing the village idiot? You think that had nothing to do with you mom? Do you want me to forgive you for that? Well, I cant. I just can't do that, OK?!"

I'm breathing heavily, my arms flailing about ungracefully, my eyes heating up, the world both stopping and moving too fast around me.

Does Abby forgive me, does Abby forgive me? Abby?

I'm crying. And my mom's crying is getting even louder. I think she's possibly the only person in the ER who didn't hear that. I stumble backwards, I can't stay here any more, I can't watch this. Luka doesn't make any movements to follow me as I turn and leave, my feet slamming against the cold linoleum flooring and the sounds of concerned humans fading around me, until I'm alone. 

The roof is cold, and I grab at the flimsy white cotton jacket in an unconscious attempt to keep from freezing to death. I realize that I'm still crying.

I brush the backs of my hands against my eyes, and lean against the brick wall that stands between me and three lanes of traffic. 

I hate her. I hate her so much. I never knew that I could.

She's my mother and I hate her.

She's my mother and she hates me.

Oh god.

I remember being eight. I remember waiting outside school for two hours before she remembered that she was my mother and that that was what mother's did.

I remember crying and crying and crying when I was twelve because she didn't come home for four days and I thought that she was lying dead in a ditch off of New Mexico somewhere. 

I remember vodka and cheap wine taking priority over groceries and laundry.

God.

A part of me tells me that it isn't her fault. She's a manic-depressive. It isn't her fault and it isn't my fault and it isn't the world's fault. It just is. Another part, tells me, that she knows that the medication helps, that she knows what she's doing, what she's saying. That she means it all.

God. 

"Abby?"

I swallow hard, and try to get my voice to come out. "Uh, yeah Carter?"

He places a jacket over me. *His* jacketit has his smell on it. The familiar smell more than anything comforts me, and I smile weakly at him.

"She's gone Abby."

I can still feel my eyes heating up. 

I will not cry. I will not cry. I will not cry.

"Yeah? Where'd she go?"

Carter shrugs slightly, and I can see that he's concerned, his forehead creasing lightly. "Home, she said. I think Luka volunteered to take her, make sure she gets there OK. Help her take her meds."

I nod, and bite my lip.

We're silent for several minutes, years, lifetimes.

"You know you aren't at all like your mother."

I drag my hands against my face, pull my hair back, and sigh. The tears are gone and I'm back to feeling anger. I want to scream, to throw something that'll land with a satisfying smash. I want to drown my life in a bottle of something with a French name. I don't do this. So maybe Carter's right. My mom would have broken something against something or someone else without hesitation. I could never do that.

He has his arm around my shoulder, and I lean back into him, into his warmth. I wonder why this is so much easier for me to do with Carter than it is with Luka.

And then there was his voice. "Abby..." He paused to turn to look at me, brushing a tear soaked strand of hair out of my eyes, "...this isn't your fault y'know. *She* isn't your fault."

My voice was rough, and wavering a notch more than I wanted it to. "Carter...I just have some issues with her...that I'm trying to deal with. It's pretty gory at the moment I know, and it doesn't help that she refuses to admit that she has actually got a problem... Geeze, maybe that's hereditary." I sigh again, and close my eyes, my world reduced to the feel of his fingers forming gentle abstract patterns on my forearm, and the sound of his breathing next to me. 

"And you're fine huh?"

I nod against him, and I can feel my eyes heat up again. I bite down harder on my lip.

"If it's any consolation my family isn't exactly going to win any 'Susan Home Keeping' awards either."

I smile at this as I look up at him. "I don't doubt that for a second."

He laughs lightly, pulling me closer into his warmth. "Oh and why is that?"

"Carter you were weaned onto caviar. Your family has enough money to feed a small nation Cajun chicken well into the next century." He smiles with a knowing nod. "And Carter, nothing pulls at the heart strings more than a poor little rich kid." I tease gently.

He pouts playfully. "Well at least my mom can tie her own shoe laces."

I smile again. "But your mom probably pays someone to do that as well."

He laughs, "OK, OK, you win, your family sucks more than mine, happy?"

I nod, the anger and repressed tears returning to their caves in the darkest recesses of my soul. I smile. I like that he can do this to me. That around him I can feel comfortable with my life, as messy and ugly as it is. 

He squeezes me against him gently with one arm, "We're gonna be OK, y'know."

I smile and look at him. "You think?"

He catches my eyes with his, and I am reminded of how intense those big brown swirls of light sensitive nerves can be. "With families like ours, it's only fair that we are."

And then, with his arm still around my shoulder, he leads me back down into County.

* * * * *

"Abby...it's three thirty in the morning, what are you doing?"

I shift my gaze back across to his. His eyes are tired slits, and his voice comes out with a thick Croatian accentin those insane minutes between awake and sleep he tends to repress back to his native tongue. He continues to watch me as I pull on my trainers.

"Abby...?"

I sigh. "I am going for a jog." I tell him decidedly.

He flops back against the bed, his battle to stay awake and question me being lost. "Why, Abby?"

I shrug on an old hooded top of his, pull my hair into a bun, and pick up his keys. "Because...it's what 'normal' people do when they can't sleep."

"Oh...OK," he says, and I watch him close his eyes, his body taking up the entire bed.

"Night Luka," I mutter, as I bend to plant a kiss on his lips.

I watch him momentarily. He's certainly not hard on the eyes. I hesitate. Something inside me wanting him to reach out and pull me back into bed, and sleep, or to hold me, his arms surrounding me, much the way Carter had done up on the roof. He doesn't do any of these things, and with mild disappointment, I leave.

I take satisfaction in the cold wind that Chicago offers me as I begin at a run on the street in front of his apartment. It feels like thousands of tiny daggers are each breaking into my skin, letting everything bleed away. The cold is comforting. Soothing. Numbing.

There arent many people around to watch and gawk at the crazy brunette whose roaming the three am streets, and those people that I do pass are too busy being drunk or too busy making out. The crazy brunette goes unnoticed.

My mother and that dance we do so well together is getting old. I know the routine from scene one right through to the closing sentences. It's always the same. Same screaming, same pieces of china getting smashed, same residual bitterness, and always the same ending.

Its like clock work.

Predictable.

And I hate it.

But what can you do, huh? Matricide is illegal, and this time I'm not running away. I have a life here. I have a boyfriend. I have friends. I have a job. A bank account. A favourite restaurant. I'm sober here. I like it here, and I'm not running this time.

So what can you do?

I glance down at my watch, five-to-four. I've run five blocks already, and my body is beginning to warm up, the cold daggers subsiding to just a light numbness. 

My psychiatrist thinks that I should talk to someone. That this Carter person seems like someone that I should confide in, sounds like someone who will understand.

I wonder where he lives. What he'd think if I turned up on his doorstep at four am in the morning, to confess to inner demons and child hood traumas. It could be fun I think with a smile. We could do it over popcorn, whilst watching 'celebrities before they were famous' movies with tacky soundtracks. We could compare notes on what it was like to be completely unloved and unwanted by the only people that were obligated to do so.

Instead of finding out, I run faster down the sodium lit streets, until the only thought I have left is of the cold.

* * * *

"Maggie?"

The smell of rot and of open garbage cans and of lonely people filling all of the loneliness in and around them with taco bells and cigarettes and sex and early morning TV surrounds me. 

It's a familiar smell.

I rub my hands together and rap my knuckles harder against the ply wood doorframe. I can hear movement, but it could come from anywhere, from any TV set.

Suddenly the door opens.

Why did I come here?

Maggie's eyes are dilated, her hair a mess around her head, and she looks more than a little disorientated. She tries to focus on me.

"Abby? Abby you're back!"

I push past her into my apartment, and I can hear her following behind me as I walk into my bedroom. She's telling me about the many (oh let me count them) ways in which she'll make it up to Abby, she promises, Abby will be proud of her soon enough, Abby's going to be OK.

I ignore all this, and ignore the pervading mess that she has brought about to my room. Clothes and fabrics and books and magazines lay recklessly along the floor, in some abstract tapestry of modern art. A Calvin Klein model smiles up at me from the pages of her bulimic exclusive. 

My underwear is the first thing I think to get. 

This wasn't why I came. I came with the high expectations of having a conversation with my mother, I came with really stupid idealistic images of my mom and I forgiving and forgetting and hugging and crying and living out the scripted versions of our lives.

She thinks that red is my colour, that that European will like red on me, she can make me something in red when she gets a job, it's going to be the first thing that she's going to do for me.

So, a few pairs of underwear-none of which is red, are grasped into my hands and stuffed into the rack sack which I find beneath my bed. 

Maybe I'm stalling.

I'm waiting for her to say something, or for something to change, for the world to change its spin on its axis.

A few more vests and blouses are manhandled into my bag, and I'm still waiting.

I take in a deep breath, and decide to change it for us.

"Mom? Mom, will you be quiet for a second?"

I'm vaguely surprised when she takes the time to stop talking and to look at me.

"Mom," I shake my head. "Maggie. Maggie this has got to stop, you have got to stop this."

"Stop what Abby?"

Predictable.

I feel the resentment surface. I make a movement to display the mess around me. "Stop with this, stop with me having to come home and find you slumped against my bed without even a phone call telling me youre going to be here, I need for you to stop screwing my life up. I need for you to take your meds."

There's a silence. A long silence that is filled with a million unspoken tears and a million pieces of broken china and a million glasses of distilled liquor.

It's a familiar silence.

Abby, why are you saying these awful things, what have I done Abby? We forgave each other Abby, Abby, why much you continue to be such a bitch, Abby, why are you doing this to me Abby? Abby's my daughter, when is Abby going to start acting like my daughter? 

And on and on and on, until the words blur into a million unspoken tears and a million pieces of broken china.

I will not cry. I will not cry. I will not cry.

My mission to obtain underwear has been aborted. My mission to bring about some form of resolution, some form of hunky dory to my life has been aborted.

I grab my bag, and sighing walk past my mother, into the hallway, and away from the empty taco bell filled lives.

She follows me.

Tells me what an ungrateful 'obscene noun' I am, what an awful unforgiving 'word for a female dog' of a daughter that I am. Abby's going to hell, does Abby know that?

"Save me a window seat, Maggie."

Predictable.

The cold bitter sting of Chicago greets me as I begin at a run in front of my apartment. It feels good. Comforting. 

And then I run harder, faster, until the only thought I have left is of another life, another family, and of a million filled silences.

A million ways to forgive and forget.

* * * *


	2. Passing Pressure Clouds

  
'Past Dances and Future Tears:'  
Passing Pressure Clouds  
  
  
Rating: A big fat 'A:A' for Angst of the Abby kind. (Maybe a PG-15?)  
Archive: Please?:)  
Spoilers: Up through to present day season 7-ish.  
Disclaimer: After many a talk with my lawyers I've resigned myself to the fact that these guys and girls aren't ever gonna be mine. I'm going to try and return them in a better state than that at which I found them in. It's the least I could do for them.  
Author's Notes: Directly follows the 'Forgive and Forget?' storyline, so I'm gonna advise you read up on that one first.   
  
I also did a little research into alcolholism and drug addictions for this one, but, not enough to earn me a degree, so apologies for any mistakes.  
  
And this is for all you kind (and astute;-) people who sent me feedback, asking me for a sequel, I hope that this lives up to the last one.   
  
Feedback's good for my karma (and your karma too;), so ; angelpixiedust@bolt.com  
  
* * * *  
  
"I'm never alone, I'm alone all the time"  
-Bush  
  
* * * *  
  
Chicago looks a lot bigger in the dark.  
  
Then again, most places do. The dark gives secluded corners a life they never get to live out during the day. White escaped lab mice become rats with piercing red eyes, laughter is amplified and stretched until it becomes blood-curdling screams. Everything looks threatening, every corner breeding some form of b-movie Monster No. Two. The alleyway next to that Italian diner with the Mexican Chef suddenly seems like the secret club den of every rapist, thief, and mutated kitten within a fifteen-mile radius. I quickly eye the other side of the street, but the old lady with the tin can trolley wraps her fingers around the handlebars possessively, and so I take my chances with the mutant kittens.  
  
My head hurts from a lack of sleep. From a lack of radiating photons.  
  
I remember when I was a kid, all the grown ups and 'Billy-The-Safety-Bunny' commercials reminding me that I should never talk to strangers, that little Abby should never talk to strange people.  
  
And I always wondered, well, who do little Abby's talk to when the strangest person they know happened to give birth to them?  
  
I sigh, and eye my surroundings again. Chicago's dark, and it's cold, and it's breeding a million different kinds of bitter looking evils, and I should be sleeping. Normal Abby's like me should be sleeping.  
  
Should be.  
  
I sigh, and I continue to run.  
  
I'm too tempted.  
  
I've had nights like these before. Every member of the Was A Drunk Club has had one. They say so right there in bold print in those little handbooks that they give to you when you sign in.   
  
They give you handbooks on how average people respond to the average withdrawal symptoms and what the average person can expect to find happening within this average situation.   
  
Handbooks to remind us that we're all broken and we need to be fixed.  
  
And I've had broken nights like these before.   
  
And I'm going to have broken nights like these for the rest of my life.  
  
'There isn't a cure.'  
  
'It's a lifelong thing.'  
  
'Every day is a battle.'  
  
And on and on and on, as though these Hallmark sayings will give us some kind of warm, fuzzy feeling of comfort as we read them. That on these, oh so normal nights, we're going to scan through the pages and feel comforted by the permanency of it all.  
  
Carter and I could quote whole chapters from that manual.   
  
He understands about the fling I had with it all. Addiction slept with him after it had been in my sheets. We don't discuss it, though. Lets us make pretend that that was all it was, a casual one-night stand. We were young, naïve, vulnerable. Taken in by its calming voice and whispered promises to be there whenever we woke up. Who needs to wake up alone?  
  
We were stupid, we say. And its brutal betrayal is too freshly cut into our memories.   
  
It hurts. Everything tingles with the memory. And I want.  
  
God.  
  
I want. I want to forget this. I want to forget everything. I don't want to have to keep soldiering through this all. I don't want to be brave, or strong or to be a fucking 'average' alcoholic.  
  
I want to end the acidic Loneliness that's burning a cavity in my stomach.  
  
'I want a fucking drink.'  
  
I wonder which aisle that Hallmark card would be in.  
  
And I'm breathing heavily, so I should slow down, and breathe, slowly, and deeply, and allow all the oxygen molecules to fuel my starved cells. Allow myself to recover.   
  
But my cells don't want that.   
  
They want over twenty-one, licensed and imported things.  
  
Chicago's an empty place when the sun's radiation isn't there to wrap everything up in nice little blankets of normal.  
  
And Loneliness may not be the greatest company, but she's always there.  
  
And I keep running, I keep running, god, I have to keep running.  
  
* * * *  
  
Luka clears his throat dramatically.  
  
I continue to let the foam build up on my teeth, the Minty Fresh Feeling tingling my tongue. He thinks that it's my fault that we're going to be late. That him kissing me back had nothing to do with him. That I was responsible for his mouth as he teased my neck with his lips.  
  
I can hear another melodramatic cough. He's going for the Oscar.  
  
"Jushgimmmmeeashec."  
  
"What, Abby?"  
  
I spit out the foamy paste, and tell him to "Gimme a sec."  
  
He gives me another running commentary on the time. Like I have no idea that time goes forwards instead of backwards, and that, whilst my teeth are being given their morning wash, time is still passing us by.  
  
Sighing, I spit out the alkaline solution, and rinse my mouth out with two handfuls of tap water.   
  
He's now resorted to whistling bad show tunes to get my attention.  
  
I ignore him, and quickly inspect myself in the mirror. The deep lines and black smudges beneath my eyes glare back at me spitefully from beneath the layers of foundation that I believed would make them fade back into a full night's worth of sleep.  
  
Sighing, I drown my tired face in two more handfuls of water, dab it with a towel, and move out into the hall, where Luka's on his third rendition of 'Old king Cole', his eyes telling me in no uncertain terms to hurry, hurry, hurry as another two minutes have obviously been whittled away.   
  
We're on borrowed time.  
  
Shrugging on my coat, and pulling on my bag, I follow him out into the pastel colourings of the hallway, hesitating on the doorframe.   
  
"You catch the weather report?"  
  
"Rain. High-pressure clouds. Minus five degree Celsius in the morning, minus nine this evening."   
  
I shrug my head into the direction of the umbrella stand, realizing that he actually has one of these things, and say, "You wanna play safe?"  
  
He nods his head, with a small smile, and follows me out into the high-pressure clouded area of Chicago. The photons dazzle me, and I eye several corners of its streets nostalgically, searching for mutants and fanged rats.   
  
I see only garbage cans and drunken people with bad hangovers bitching about the pressure clouds.  
  
And my head hurts from the lack of sleep.  
  
Luka tells me about his plans for the rest of the day whilst reading the Sports pages of the Chicago Something Or Other, as I let my head find warmth in his shoulder, as we hitch our daily ride in on the El.   
  
I wonder where my mother is. I wonder if she's planning to come back down here to send me her love personally. She's not a singing telegram type of person.   
  
I peer over Luka's shoulder to read today's horoscope.   
  
Something about the passing of a storm. My chance to re-fuel. Nothing about cravings or temptations or crazy mothers with home addresses.  
  
I lock hands with Luka as we step off the El and into County territory. He turns to face me suddenly.  
  
"So how was your jog?"  
  
I shrug at this break in conversation. "Nothing special."  
  
"You came back home at six Abby." He says with a hint of something that I can't quite define in his voice.  
  
Because of this I hesitate in my answer. "The Sears Tower is a lot further than you'd imagine." And climbing it is also a lot more of a bitch than the advertisers'd tell you.  
  
This earns me a puzzled look. "You ran all the way to The Sear's Tower at three thirty in the morning?"  
  
I give him another shrug. "Sure, where would *you* run to at three thirty in the morning?"  
  
He sighs at me and my attitude which I can assume is bad from the way he looks at me. "Well, why not stay in bed? With me?"  
  
I want to tell him that it's because sometimes he acts like we're no more intimate than two complete strangers in line at Starbucks. I want to tell him this. I don't.  
  
"I just needed some time to think."  
  
"Really?" He asks, that indefinable edge still in his voice. "So, what did you think about on this run to the Sears Tower?"  
  
I feel guilty at being so pleased to see the Emergency sign that hangs over us as we walk in. I smile lightly, as we sign our names in. "Oh y'know, you, me...and...stuff."  
  
He sees the smile, and returns it one eyebrow raised in a silent question mark. All thoughts of jogging and thinking time lost in this new topic. "'Stuff', Abby?"  
  
I smile, my name written legibly enough, and look up at him. "Oh y'know..." I lower my voice, and lean in towards him. "Secret nurse stuff."  
  
His hands reach for my waist, and there's another silent question mark within those eyebrows. "Secret nurse stuff?"  
  
I'm conscious of the fact that we're in wide view of all the medical professionals who include gossip as their primary hobby. But it's hard to concentrate on the rest of the universe when his eyebrows are raised like that, and so I succumb to letting his lips graze off mine, his tongue playfully finding my lower lip.   
  
He tastes of burnt toast.  
  
I lean back again, my hands playing with his hair. And I remind myself to hide the Bryl Cream a little deeper into the bedside. "Oh...only a little something I patented."  
  
This provokes another teasing smile, and another toast flavoured kiss.  
  
"Miss Lockhart?"  
  
Luka and I shift back into professional distances at the sound of this voice. Luka feels that he should explain to Weaver the exact nature of our lateness, and she nods understandingly at us and our dead dog, of the name Fido. We promise to call in, in advance the next time any of our animals decides to step out in front of out of control Pizza Delivery Guys, and she nods again understandingly.  
  
I want to lose myself in the feel of those lips. Abby isn't alone when she isn't kissing alone.  
  
But Luka's already back to being just another normal couple who fuck when no one else is looking.  
  
He wants to know what time's Abby's break at, if she'll be able to catch a coffee with him at some point, and if she can get him a suture kit, please and thank you.  
  
* * * *  
  
It's twenty-three and a half hours into my day, and according to my timetable, in fifteen minutes if you were to walk in here drunk, and drooling, and killing any, and all of Frank Sinatra's songs, I wouldn't have to know anything about it.  
  
Dave's flirting with a girl with a Silicon Valley that Bill Gates could be proud of and Weaver is arguing with yet more 'ignorant-selfish-got-their-jobs-on-their-backs-minions-of-satan' phone receptionists.  
  
People are throwing up, picking noses, picking fights, idly twiddling broken thumbs as they wait for doctors and nurses to 'ooh' and 'ahh' over them, giving them educated diagnoses and endless prescriptions of valium.  
  
Welcome to just another night in the life of Abby.  
  
I find myself slamming my locker door shut with energy that I didn't know I could have on only three hours sleep.  
  
This startles the sleeping body of Carter.  
  
"Wha...??!!...Jesus Abby."  
  
The neglected charts on his lap drop against his feet with a thud.  
  
I smile, and tell him that I really didn't mean to startle him, and he looks at me playfully and tells me like hell I didn't.   
  
And Abby smiles guiltily.  
  
Dave makes his presence known to us, with moody mutterings to himself, and the slam of the lounge doorway. He wants to know why girls need to date guys with flashy cars and fathers who know the ins and outs of the New York stock exchange, and he wonders why he couldn't be one of those guys, huh? The world isn't fair.   
  
Carter tells him that life isn't fair.  
  
Agreeing with this, he turns to smile at me, before finding a clean enough mug, and the coffee pot.   
  
"True love playing hard to get?" I say teasingly, as I stuff several medical journals into my bag and then sling it across my shoulder.  
  
He gives me an eyes twinkling smile. "It's what she does best." He sighs, and sipping on his mug says, "God this is exactly what I need."  
  
Carter is stretched out across the sofa, "...All I need is..." he glances at me quickly, but then shifts his eyes down to a happy red stain on his white shirt, "...a detergent that actually gets blood out of clothes."  
  
I sigh, "And all I really need is..."   
  
...Something more than this...  
  
...A Big Book of Answers...  
  
...to come home and find that the man that I want to spend the rest of my life with, is lying in my bed wearing only a smile and a bowl of Chunky Munky...  
  
"What I really need is a window repairman, and a Swiss Bank Account."  
  
And Luka's on until six tomorrow morning, and so it's just me leaving County's doors, and it's just me walking home, and it's just me that I have to live with.  
  
Welcome to just another night in the life of Abby.  
  
* * * *  
  
It's been four days since I've had the honour to be graced with my mother's presence.  
  
Four days, and I've reclaimed my apartment, with the help of a locksmith and lots of air freshener. Luka calls it tough love, I asked him what love had to do with anything --I just wanted my bathroom back.  
  
My mother's vanishing act doesn't surprise me. It's just another little scene in this Broadway dance of ours. This is the fifteen minute interlude, where you try to recover from all the wooden acting with a bag of nachos, where you have a cigarette and forget that Romeo has to die, and where you find yourself constantly checking your watch to see when it's all going to start again.  
  
And I'm glad that I got here when I did --my fridge was beginning to look like some kind of advanced biochemical experiment; the milk was cultivating an army of living bacteria and my lettuce was practically capable of using primitive tools.  
  
I have a theory that a giant red fabric filled bomb was planted inside my apartment, and therefore, all the pieces of tacky fabric that I keep finding in my home, under my bed, in my underwear can be blamed on that. I mean, just how does a person go about sticking pieces of red fabric in underwear?  
  
Luka's doing his time at County at the moment, and I'm currently...picking through the aftermath of my mother's visit. Apart from the whole red fabric thing, I'm also filling up bin liners with bottles of cheap wine, cheap 3% alcohol with misleading birthplaces and dates, and then there's the broken pieces of vodka bottles, and the smashed remnants of china, and the half eaten tins of soup and beans with greasy spoons jutting out of them leeringly. Claudia Schiffer gives me an unforgiving Look as she finds herself under tins and tins of alphabet soup.   
  
I'm also surprised to find that the money that I had stashed behind a book on my desk, for emergencies and that short black dress in the window at Macy's, is gone. Maybe it wanted to see the world?  
  
I've been doing this for an hour, or maybe more, when I suddenly find myself, sitting against my bed, my eyes burning up with anger, and hurt, and then I find fresh tears coming out, one after another, after another, until I'm crying, and sobbing, and letting my mascara wash itself away in a sea of salt and hurt.  
  
The tears are hot, and unexpected, and they burn as they make their way down to an old shirt of Luka's that I wear whenever I wake up next to him, causing the bridges of my breasts to dampen, and I forget what time it is, and I want something to numb this all away, I want something to numb these 'average' feelings away.  
  
And the tears burn against my skin, unwelcome visitors, and I brush my hands against them again and again, but, when something begins to bleed, it doesn't stop bleeding until the wounds have healed and scarred, and so Abby cries.  
  
*Bang* *Bang*  
  
I wake up with a jolt.  
  
My head feels light and my eyes feel strangely vacant. They scan across my room...it's clean. I mean, you could hardly tell what kind of a ground zero this place had been if you hadn't actually experienced the explosion. I can see the carpet. Which is a definite improvement.  
  
I feel empty, but refreshed, and inspired to get myself a cup of coffee, when the sound that forced me into consciousness returns.  
  
*Bang* *Bang*  
  
Knocking? I sigh, and pull myself into a standing position, ready to face whatever religion pushing Encyclopedia selling nut that happens to be roaming around the streets at...I glance at my watch, nine thirty pm...  
  
I slept for four hours.  
  
I pull off the latches one at a time, and I can hear impatient foot shifting on the other side. My door's made of cheap plywood -you could hear someone's heart beating from the other side if you listened hard enough. Not that I've ever listened hard enough...  
  
More impatient knocking.  
  
I swing the door open, and my prepared speech goes flying out. "Look I've already accepted Jesus Christ as my personal savior, and I don't want any more goddam copies of the Watchtower, so if you'll just..." I stop just in time to catch laughter. I smile, as the figure on my doorstep suddenly becomes apparent in the dim lighting. "Well hey Carter...not resorting to selling issues of The Watchtower are we?"  
  
He smiles again, obviously having enjoyed that little outburst of mine. "No, not yet, and nice to see you too Abby." He stands aside to reveal a grinning older gentleman, oh great, Abby had an audience. Carter turns to face the man, "Mr Roberts, this is Abby Lockhart, Abby Lockhart, Mr Roberts."  
  
I smile politely and take Mr Robert's offered hand. "Hi there." And then I turn back to face Carter, my curiosity and dumbfoundedness obviously being expressed on my face as Carter smiles at me and says simply, "He's here to repair your window."  
  
And with that, I stand aside, and let Mr Roberts in, giving him directions to which innocent window it was that Maggie's hand vented it's anger through, although he couldn't miss it, I tell him, as it's the one with the cardboard and ductape covering.  
  
And then I turn back to face Carter whose leaning against my door frame, looking like he does this kind of good Samaritan thing everyday, and I shake my head, "Carter...why...?"  
  
He shrugs as he turns to look at me, "You said you needed your window fixed, right?" I give a vague shake of the head. "Well, I happened to mention this to Mr Roberts, who happened to owe me a favor, and now... you happen to have a new window."  
  
I try to say something. But I'm speechless. Somebody buying me a new window has left me speechless. One day it's going to happen to you, and I can assure you, you will be touched.   
  
"Carter..." I stop myself and give into being emotional. I reach my arms around his tall frame, around his neck, and pull him towards me, "God Carter --thank you. It's the sweetest thing anyone's ever done for me..." I'm smiling, and there are fresh tears in my eyes. I can feel his body become tense under me for just a second, and then his hands are rubbing at my back, and he's telling my hair that it's OK, and that it was nothing really, it was nothing.  
  
I lean back, and smile again. "Thank you...I mean it Carter, thank you. God, you didn't get me a Swiss bank account too, did you?"  
  
It might just be the lighting, but I could have sworn that he was blushing, just a bit. He's smiling, and that makes me smile even more. I motion towards the inside of my house, "You want to come in, get some coffee or something?"  
  
He nods, and I guess he wasn't expecting that kind of a response as he doesn't say a word as he follows me into my excuse for a kitchen. The bin liners line one end of the wall, and one small window lets moonlight dust all my kitchen surfaces, the cutlery glinting at us as we walk in.  
  
After switching on the lights, and pouring him some coffee, I offer him a seat, and I lean back against one of the counters. I'm still not sure what exactly to say, and so I'm content to just watch him glance around the kitchen, and then, eventually at me.  
  
I realize how I must appear to him, and cringe internally. My hair is still all poofy from sleep-or lack thereof, I'm wearing a pair of flannel pajama bottoms that are too big for me, an old vest, and an open tee shirt that Luka was wearing at some point last night.   
  
I look like hell.   
  
Therefore it comes as no surprise when he asks me how 'things are.'   
  
I sigh, and smile politely, "Things are not...so bad, I guess."  
  
He pauses, and then with more hesitation asks, "And Maggie?"  
  
The mere mention of her, and I can feel my stomach turn itself into twisted Boy Scout knots. Did he want the War and Peace version, or the edited for younger viewers one?   
  
"My mother, huh? She's fine too...I guess, in that special way she has." I have a broad definition of fine.  
  
"Really?"  
  
Another stomach flip. There had been a definite question mark at the end of those two syllables.   
  
"It's ten o' clock at night Carter...you don't *really* want to discuss my insane, obnoxious excuse for a parent do you?"  
  
I can hear him thinking. Well, not hear him exactly, but I could see his brain ticking over, all the neurons and synapses working away, behind those dark irises of his.   
  
"Well when was the last time that *you* did?"  
  
Another pregnant pause. "Well, with her doctors, with my landlord, with some more doctors, I even tried one of those psychology hot-lines on TV, you know, see if they have a 'how to keep your crazy mother from ruining your life' mail order kit. They didn't."  
  
A light laugh. "I think I probably bought the last one." And then he looks back up at me, and lifts his shoulders lightly, his voice soft. Concerned. "You, uh, you haven't spoken to me."   
  
Sighing I take a mouthful of caffeine into my mouth, and let it settle there for a bit, before swallowing. I can hear objects being shifted around in my room, and the sounds of night falling like a dirty silk sheet across Chicago.  
  
I shake it all off, and smile. "You know more about my mother than she does, Carter... What about you, how are things with you?"  
  
He smiles, and although I can see that he's intrigued by my silence on this subject, doesn't push it. "Honestly?"  
  
I nod, "Honestly."  
  
He smiles, and takes a sip of coffee from my Garfield mug, "Well I don't know, my karma's starting to look pretty bad."  
  
I smile, "Well have *you* accepted Christ as your personal savior?"  
  
He laughs and shakes his head, and then Mr Roberts comes in and tells me that 'it's as good as new' and that if I have any problems, my boyfriend over there can just give him a ring, and Carter and I laugh, and tell him that he's not my boyfriend, and I'm not his girlfriend, and he gives us a funny look and shakes his head disappointingly at Carter, and then I find myself sitting alone in my moon dusted kitchen, with a Garfield coffee cup in one hand, and a lonely feeling burning a cavity into my stomach.   
  
* * * * *  
  
Luka's wearing too many clothes.  
  
That's the last coherent thought that passes through my synapses as he walks in, a grocery bag in one hand and an Italian take out in the other.   
  
These soon fall to the floor with a satisfying thud, as Luka finds himself cornered up against my cheap ply wood door, the taco bell worshipping neighbors' finding themselves turning their TV volumes down to tune into the randy young couple next door, and I want to give them a good show, and Luka's lips taste too much like Luka, and my hands are pulling at his silk shirt, and his hands are two steps too far behind me, and we don't say anything, and he doesn't question anything, and I wonder what my mother would say, and I wonder if great sex is all I am, and I need him to need me, and I need him to pull my top off and need me.  
  
And Loneliness may not be great company, and she may not know the greatest bars, or have the best reputation, but she's always there.  
  
  
* * * * *  
* *  
To be continued...  
  



	3. Abby Hit the Atmosphere

'Past Dances and Future Tears:'

Abby Hit The Atmosphere

Disclaimer: I'm just babysitting these kids for a bit. I promise I won't let them stay out late.

Category: Abby Angst. PG-15 for language of a Long Shore man nature. 

Author Notes: Add-on to everything else written previously ('Forgive...' and 'Passing...'). This is also slightly based on my own personal experiences of dealing with a mother who suffers from manic depression. 

So, get the sympathy tissues out, and put on the Counting Crows song, 'Amy Hit The Atmosphere,' which, funnily enough, happens to be the title of this segment. Coincidence?:)

Feedback: It's a girl's best friend; angelpixiedust@bolt.com

* * * *

"It's always tempting to lose yourself with someone, who's maybe lost themselves."

-- Patti ("My So-Called Life")

* * * *

"Hey Luka."

I take hesitant steps into the darkened lounge area.

He barely lifts his head up and barely raises a smile. "Oh hi Abby." He takes note of the bag slung over my shoulder and the absence of my nursing combat gear. "Going home already?"

I nod, "Uh, yeah, it's eleven thirty, my shift finished half an hour ago."

He's got a pen poised in one hand, and a stack of papers sitting next to him. Misery keeping him company. He looks back down at whatever it is that he's attacking with the pen, and then back up at me. "So you're going home?"

I sigh. "Well, I was kind of hoping that we could *both* go home, or maybe get some dinner. There's this Italian place..."

He shakes his head gently, shifting his eyes from the paper in front of him and then back at me. "I don't think-"

I smile. I force a chirpy smile. Abby's good at that. "Sure. It's OK. I understand. Um, how about you come by my place when you've finished?"

He's shaking his head again, and I'm finding it hard to keep my smile. "I'm pretty tired Abby. I think I'm just going to go home and get some sleep."

I nod my head, and begin to edge closer towards the door. Is this the part where I stop smiling? "Sure. OK. So then, well, I guess, I'll see you tomorrow or something, huh?"

He nods his head somberly, tells me a goodbye, and drops his head back down as he shifts his pen along the page.

This is the third time this week when I've found myself standing around anxiously awaiting for his shift to end, before he tells me that, no point Abby, stuff to do Abby, maybe some other time Abby. And I understand. You don't go through the trauma of earning a medical degree to expect to find yourself having the most pro-active of social lives. I understand that. At least I'm trying to.

But, this isn't the reason behind my hurt. 

Sometimes, when he doesn't think anyone's looking, I'll catch him looking out into an imaginary distance, his eyes hollow and empty, and lost. And I've asked him. I ask him. If he wants to talk. If he needs a shoulder. He smiles weakly and tells me that it's nothing, that he's fine, that Abby shouldn't worry. And it hurts. He doesn't trust me, trust himself with me. It hurts, that there's this imaginary wall standing between us. An imaginary wall surrounding him. 

Adds more doubts to my already doubtful existence. 

And I'm trying to understand.

I'm thinking of all the alternative ways in which I could spend my night, as I attempt an invisible trek across the ER floors. I'm thinking of bubbles and baths and hot milk and Ben and Jerry's, only to have Frank yell out to me. Normally, this would have been met with a subtle piss off, a subtle finger raise, masked by a polite 'stuff to do,' stance.

But he keeps calling out my name.

Sighing, and making it obvious to everyone within a two-mile radius that Abby's not in the mood, I approach him.

"What is it?"

He sighs, with a forced chirpy smile, and an outstretched hand clutching at a phone says, "Abby, it's your landlord, he wants to know if you know anyone by the name of Maggie..."

* * * *

"If I could make it rain today  
And wash away this sunny day down to the gutter  
I would  
Just to get a change of pace  
Things are getting worse but I feel a lot better  
And that's all that really matters to me"

* * * *

"Where've you been Maggie?"

That's not what I want to say. What have you been doing, Maggie? Which pills have you been taking Maggie? How many windows have you broken Maggie? That's what I want to know. I want to know how many pieces I'm going to have to pick up.

She looks disgusting. Her hairs matted and knotted and cultivating several different forms of smell. She's fermenting alcohol in her hair.

And the doorway to my apartment is the last place where I want us to be. But there we are. 

Here we are. 

The silence holds the air around us hostage. It's vapid. Suffocating.

It ranks high in my predictability scale.

An 8.6 at least.

The amount of alcohol swimming around inside her head seems to be affecting her balance. She looks at me and then away. Someone inside me wants to take her into my apartment, sit her down and feed her silly. Give her a shower and brush her hair. Talk to her soothingly.

But. Then there's the part of me that wants to hear the slam of the door in front of her face. Wants to make her stand in the rain for four hours whilst I decide what freak of nature I get to screw tonight. The biggest part of me wants to ignore everything she tells me, every piece of soul she bears to me and then hold it against her at some point in the future. But. It's not raining and there are no doors to slam and no souls to bear.

She's looking at me and I can see that she's beginning to forget why she came. And she's not alone.

She looks away from me as she begins her tale. She's changing Abby. She's changing. She promises Abby. She does. She promises.

So much for predictability.

I can't look at her. I've had a crappy day, Maggie. A really crappy day. I've seen people die today Maggie. Real people with homes and families and favourite TV shows. I've seen people die. They don't want to die Maggie. They tell me this as they die. They tell me about regrets, I ever tell you that I'm a part time psychiatrist and priest? No? Well, that's what I am. You know what that feels like? You don't? No kidding, Maggie.

This isn't what I say.

"What are you doing here?" This comes out with an underscore of anger. I'm glad it's not a wasted underscore as she looks up at me sharply. Condemningly.

She reminds me of our relationship. She's my mom. Something about obligations. 

Obligations? Right. She's the one who would know all about that.

But this isn't the time. My hallway isn't that place.

So, I turn, in my blood soaked shoes, and slam the door shut behind me. 

And my breath is pained. It hurts. I'm crying as I lean up against my doorframe. I'm crying, and I can hear her outside.

I'm a bitch. I'm a son of a bitch. She never wanted to give birth to me. Big mistake, Abby. Biggest mistake of her life. She hates me. She hates me. She hates me. 

And then comes the knocking.

She's slamming her fists against my door. She's screaming things. She's drunk, she's manic, and she's screaming my door down. My grocery bag falls against the floor. I can hear a tomato give its bloody farewell.

I drag my hands through my hair. 

She hates me. She wants me to let her in. Let her in now, Abby. Let her in. She's going to do whatever it fucking takes. She will fucking get in. Open this door, Abby. She wants me to open the door. Abby? Abby! Open this door. 

So she can hate me to my face.

God.

I'm leaning against the wall opposite the door. I can see it shake and tremble under her fists. I'm crying, tears and sobs escaping involuntarily.

The doors shaking with too much ease. Fear shoots up from my stomach. 

God.

I reach to pick up the phone. All the logic and possible eventuals being calculated in that one teary second.

This is going to end. I have to stop this.

The operator has an overly soothing voice, and I find myself crying my address to her. 

God.

* * * *

"Amy hit the atmosphere  
Caught herself a rocket ride out of this gutter and  
She's never coming back, I fear  
But any time it rains,  
She just feels a lot better  
And that's all that really matters to me"

* * * *

"Your mom got arrested Abby?"

I look up sharply. Dave's standing on the other side of the desk, his hands busy peeling at the corner of a chart. 

I look back down at my work, suddenly finding this patient's name fascinating. "That's none of your business." I say it and feel stupid. If there was any one thing that I could have said that would have sparked his interest, that was it. 

I can feel his eyes burning a hole into my forehead. Keeping my eyes on the chart in my hands that I've already signed and read twice, I speak. "What is it Dave?"

"Well, uh, it was just that, if you ever y'know, need someone to talk to, or um, anything. Well, I'm here OK?"

My head jerks up sharply. I almost get whiplash. He has a look on his face that I don't think I've ever seen before. I think it's concern.

Somewhere pigs are performing crude kamikaze maneuvers around skyscrapers.

I don't know what to say, so I avert my eyes back to the coffee stained chart. "Um, I'm OK Dave, but thanks."

He sucks in a breath, and watches me for a second longer, as though I'm going to smash into billions of little pieces if he doesn't, and then, once he assures himself that I'm not glass he leaves.

I take a deep sigh. 

She looked petrified as her hands were linked up behind her back and all the legalities were recited and replayed out to her in surreal slow motion. A deer caught in flashing blue headlights. That lasted for a good solid second. And then came the screaming. The attempts at violence -drunks have a tendency to stumble and fall when they attempt left hooks. I should know. And then I cried as the men in blue uniform questioned me, extracted all the viable information that they could out of me. Once that had been done, the screaming ended and the sirens ended and I was alone.

She's going to be kept behind bars for another day. That's two whole days of peeing in front of other women.

Giving this chart another scan, and deciding that it's as good as it's going to get, I make my way to curtain area four. Three curtains down, second on the left.

I jump to find a hand on my shoulder. "Jesus Carter."

He smiles apologetically. "Sorry Abby, I just wanted-"

"I'm just going to see Mr. McKay now," I say with a smile, as I continue on my way. He follows behind me. I sigh. Or is that a groan? "If you're going to ask me if I'm OK you're a dead man."

"So you're not OK?"

This time it is a groan. "Yes I'm OK Carter."

"About your mother?"

I pull a distasteful face. "Was there some bulletin board notice that I didn't see? Just how does everybody know this?"

He looks away sheepishly. He's been found out. "Uh, well, Dave overheard you telling Weaver, and Jing Mei overheard him telling the nurses, and she, uh, told me."

"Nice to know people can be trusted." I mutter dryly. 

He's not giving in that easily. Dammit. Maybe I should put up my own memo. "ABBY'S LIFE FALLING APART. ABBY IS OK. ABBY APPRECIATES YOUR CONCERN BUT PLEASE FEEL FREE TO PISS OFF. SHOWS OVER FOLKS. NOTHING TO SEE HERE."

Still contemplating this idea I see Luka standing beside the patient in curtain area four. I turn to face Carter, indicating my stop.

He sighs, and his hand is back on my shoulder. "Look, Abby, if you need any thing, money for parole, or, well... If you need anything...someone to bitch to...someone to break expensive stuff with..."

I give him my sincere smile. At least I hope it's my sincere smile. I forget what a sincere Abby smile looks like.

He's still watching me, his eyes both concerned and understanding.

My voice is soft, as I begin to move towards Luka and my patient.

"Yeah, I know." 

I smile, as he continues to look at me with uncertainty, "-You're number's on my speed dial Carter."

And with that, I leave him.


	4. Abby Hit the Atmosphere (part II)

* * * *

"We've waited so long for someone to take us back home  
It just takes so long  
And meanwhile the days go drifting away  
And some of us sink like a stone  
Waiting for mothers to come"

* * * *

I'm sitting on my bed.

There's a TV screen sending flickering images of a black and white movie across my face. The actors are wearing too much make-up and the plot's wearing thin. She's dating her sister's ex husband, the one she had a baby with. Someone wants to shoot someone. They keep saying so as they wave a gun around in one hand. So much for subtlety.

He's asleep next to me. His back rising and falling with every breath. I can see all the spokes of his vertebrae as his lungs inflate within him, and then the creases of his shirt as he lets it all out. He doesn't snore. 

My shift ended an hour ago. First thing I did was to come in here and watch him. And then I boiled some water and made some tea and then I sat here and didn't say anything.

It's becoming a routine.

I could tell you how many times I've kissed him. How many fingers he has on each hand. And I could tell you that he doesn't snore.

I'm not sure if this is good. For me. For him.

All I can see from here is his profile. The rest is snuffed out by the pillow. He has an amazing nose. It's perfectly symmetrical with the rest of his face. His face is amazing. He has cheekbones that would make any Greek god green and bitter. Like every gene was there at the right place at the right time. Sometimes that the only thing that gets me to sleep. Counting the lines of symmetry in his face. He's a photographer's wet dream.

I don't know whether this is working out. Is it?

He's lonely. He doesn't say anything. But you can see it. His eyes don't know who they can turn to. I wonder if I'm helping.

The gun is still being flaunted about as the brother's sister's father's ex-something or other decides if he should commit a serious act of cheesiness. How many times can a brother's sister's father's ex-something or other kill that guy with the dodgy hair? It's a Bible thing. It's been done. 

But he wonders if this is the best thing to do.

* * * *

"There has to be a change, I'm sure  
Today was just a day fading into another  
And that can't be what a life is for  
The only thing she said was she feels a lot better  
And that's all that really matters to me"

* * * *

The coffee is insanely bad.

Somebody used four teaspoons instead of two and it's ice cold. 

I drink it anyway.

The taxi driver keeps looking back at us, me, in my bloody nursing scrubs, Maggie, in her charity merchandise pajamas. She isn't saying anything. Which could mean one of several things. 

One; the pills are having the desired effect and she's in a 'normal' mood. Manic depressives are never one hundred percent normal. 

Two; this is a 'down' episode of her cycle. Manic depressives are supposed to keep a little journal on their mood swings. Almost like how young girls are told to keep note of their menstrual cycle with little red dots, manic-depressives are told to keep a timetable of their mood changes. Gives them some kind of stability.

Therefore, hypothetically speaking, if she decided to go out and buy a liquor store, she could consult this little diary of hers first, and if the day happened to fall on a red dot, she would be able to debate with herself whether being a manic drunk would really be that much fun. Hypothetically speaking of course. 

So, she could be in a 'down' spell. 

Or, three (my personal choice); she hates me. She doesn't ever want to see, speak, or look at me again. She had to pee in front of fifteen other women, and, therefore, me being the responsible party seeing as she was completely smashed, I'm not her favourite person.

But, with my luck, it's probably all of the above.

I drink up the last few drops of the cheap coffee, before sighing and glancing back at my mother. Her eyes are focused on to some imaginary fixed point far off into the horizon, and her face is a strange shade of calm. 

The taxi driver's giving us another curious side ways glance. I don't think he's that interested in us. I'd doubt he'd care if we were escaped cannibals so long as we kept our feet off the upholstery. He's lucky she's not on one of her little red dot days.

After many a call to many an estranged family member, I finally managed to get my brother to agree to come down here to Chicago to pick her up. I told her this as she made lude remarks to the officer in charge of her release. Apparently he was too much of a 'red-necked-pig-fucker.' He was charmed as well.

The train station is too far away I decide with frustration, as I sink back down into my seat.

I turn to face Maggie who has taken to muttering stuff about the sites that we pass by, like an inquisitive five year old. She mostly comments on all the 'pig-fuckers' that are busy taking their evening strolls. Her pajamas are old and tatty, and I sigh again as I remember trying to coax her out of them before we left my apartment. Apparently, she's a grown woman, and she'll wear whatever she goddamn wants. Especially if it pisses Abby off.

And in an hour one mess in my life will be making her way to California. If only I could do that with all my other messes. Send them packing off to distant and hard-to-reach corners of the universe accompanied with little black lies about going to visit them some time soon.

And I'm hoping that this will be it.

I'm living with the fact that it probably won't.

* * * *

Epilogue to this chapter

* * * *

I'm not going to let it get away with it.

Another kick.

Bastard.

Another kick.

Just what does it think it is?

The heel of my boot this time. 

Bastard.

I shove my fist and make a growl of frustration.

This is punctuated with another of my dazzling displays of self-restraint.

Bastard.

Somebody's laughing. Somebody, some sadistic little bastard thinks this is funny.

"What did it do to you this time Abby?"

I pull a face at Carter. This isn't funny. That's what my eyes are telling him. He sees this and hides another grin.

"I think you can get arrested for that."

Don't push your luck Carter, you could easily be victim number two. 

He's trying not too smile again. I can hear it in his voice. "Coke machine abuse. And I'm a witness, you think that's assisted manslaughter?"

I refuse to give in to the enjoyment he's obviously deriving from this.

Bastard.

I slam my foot against the coke bottle picture, my shoulder following quickly behind.

"It-" kick, "-stole-" shove, "-my-" thump, "-fucking-" knuckles, "-dollar."

He's leaning against the wall beside my target. He's smiling, his white lab jacket matching with his blue tie. I bet he did that on purpose. He's that kind of perfectionist. And he's smiling, I mean I can see his eyes glisten with pleasure. He thinks that this is cute or something, doesn't he? Bastard.

Another heel of my boot.

"I'll give you a dollar if you want Abby."

I give him an icy glare as the side of my body slams against the metallic prison for bad coke cans. "It's not the same thing."

He raises an eyebrow at this. I bet he wants to know why Abby is venting pent up kicks and shoves and bitter words at this innocent and twisted and sadistic but innocent piece of machinery. Well. I can't kick Weaver. I can't kick the people responsible for blood. I can't kick the people that keep breaking my heart. I can't kick hurt. Not my hurt anyway.

So –kick- that's why –two knuckles- Abby's doing this.

He makes a hum of understanding. "Oh, I see, so you want to teach the coke machine a lesson, huh?"

I succumb to smiling this time, and I can see him smile at this smile. And then I stop for a second to laugh. I bet I look really stupid. I bet he knows I look really stupid. He saw how stupid I looked and didn't tell me anything.

Bastard.

He's still smiling at me, and I'm still pretending that I wasn't smiling when he says, "You OK Abby?"

I sigh and nod my head. "Why does everyone keep asking me that? Like I'm about to burst into tears at any second."

He nods, and I'm leaning against my former nemesis, and he's leaning against a poorly painted hospital wall. He's looking at me, and then at the desolate night hallways of County. I can see exam room two several doors down. Everything's in a serene silence. A hot day and nothing to do silence.

"So, I shouldn't ask you if you're OK?"

I smile, "Not unless I'm about to burst into tears."

He nods with another smile, slightly looking away. "So, are you done with the coke machine?"

"I am getting a coke if it's the last thing I do."

I give him a playful cold glare, and with one last ounce of frustration and hurt and need, aim a kick at the buttons.

The machine gives a whimper and stutters. Nothing comes out and I groan at this and begin to slam my fists in the most ungraceful display of self-restraint since my last one. Slam after slam punctuated with his good-humored laughter. Yep, he's getting some twisted kick out of this. Pervert. 

-Kick-

Bastard.

He makes a sound to gain my attention and then when he has this, he leans forward, his breath only seconds away from me, raises a suggestive eyebrow and gently presses one of the buttons.

We remain as we are as the machine moans, battered pieces of metal resuming work, and then, I can hear a coke can pop out the other end. I watch this, and then return my gaze to his seconds' away eyes, "How did-"

He gives me a smile before shifting away from me. He's at least ten seconds away. Too far. He shrugs and begins to walk away, to continue with whatever it was that my entertaining anger had interrupted. 

"Practice."

I pick up the coke can, it's cold and perfect, and pull the tab off. Taking a quick sip as I watch him walk away slowly. Each step another ten seconds away. 

"Thanks, Carter."

Good boy scout that he is, he just raises a shrugging hand. That shrug says that it was nothing Abby. I was scared for the machine Abby. 

Anytime Abby.

* * * *

"The only thing she said was she feels a lot better  
And that's all that really matters to me"

* * * *

* *

Continued...?


	5. Slaying Dragons

'Past Dances and Future Tears:'
    
    Slaying Dragons

Disclaimer: I'm just the babysitter. I make the pop corn and tuck them into bed. Did I mention I'm doing this for free?

Category: Abby Angst. PG-13?

Author Notes: This time I'm noteless. I have no note. I am without note. 

I'm currently sitting on that big old relationshippy fence. Whose getting the girl, so to speak? I must warn you, I'm easily swayed with cheap flattery:)

* * * *
    
    " 'You'd better be prepared for the jump into hyperspace.
    
    It's unpleasantly like being drunk.'
    
    'What's so unpleasant about being drunk?'
    
    'You ask a glass of water'."
    
     

- Douglas Adams, Hitchhiker's Guide

* * * *

"We close in fifteen minutes little lady."

I look back up at the bar man quickly, and nod weakly, numbly, before shifting my gaze back down to the glass of fate that's quietly whispering my name.

My finger leaves a trail of warmth along its rim, fifteen minutes huh? The will-she-won't-she saga continues.

I imagined a million different things would be running through my mind when I ended up this close to losing it. My sanity. My life. I imagined all the pros and cons tallying themselves up in my head. I imagined that I would be thinking about my future grand children, about my career, about next month's rent, about how stupid this would be and how much my liver would hate me. I imagined that I would be crying and alone and sitting against my bedside, the bottles of tequila creating a fort around me.

It's empty. My whole mind is just one big void of nothingness.

Maybe that's the reason I'm here. 

I need to be filled. I need to superficially bandage my wounds up with make shift Winnie-the-Pooh band-aids dripping with antiseptic alcohol.

I want to feel. I want to cry. Scream. Laugh. See silver linings and suns and bunnies and kittens in everything around me.

I want to not feel empty.

Taco bells don't do anything for me.

Cigarettes work when you're fifteen.

Sex is too complicated.

And this is stupid. This is so stupid. How can I be so stupid? 

Don't I watch those shock value TV commercials? Alcohol, drugs, and rock'n'roll aren't cures. They can't save me much the same way Jesus couldn't save me five years ago and I'm struggling to save myself right now.

This is normal. Apparently. I really must lend you my copy of Alcoholism for Beginners. I should be calling someone who understands. Should find something to do, something that I enjoy doing, find a hobby to go and distract me from this impending self-destruction.

Chapter Seven, verse three.

Luka was watching something on the Preview channel when I left, telling him that I had to go do laundry, go return some heavily fined library books before I had the Feds knocking on my door. He didn't blink. I called my sponsor. I did. And Carter's answering machine was just the soothing reassuring words of wisdom that I had needed. 

This was the third bar I'd passed.

Fate. 

Right?

I've been holding this drink in my hands for the past hour. Toyed with the way that it would feel as it burned a passage down my throat, until all thoughts and feelings would become muted beneath it's warmth. The glass is colder than ice, and I found myself clutching at it for heat. It has the power to change everything. The colours of my life.

And I can't do it.

Not even one, Abby?

I'm not going to be driving home, who'll have to know? Who'll really care?

And I push it away, finally, the bartender giving me a quizzical look as I pay for the drink that sits neglected against his counter. He actually reminds me that I haven't touched it. Like I would forget if I had.

Its several minutes past midnight when I leave. My favourite time of the day. When I get the chance to blend in with all the other winos and losers and nobody's in Chicago.

It's another hour before I'm sneaking back home, disgustingly sober, my clothes reeking of nicotine and coffee, and sink into my bedroom, to cry myself to sleep in complicated arms.

And I awake the next morning, alone.

* * * *

I can hear a heart monitor ring out, perverting the silence with its unharmonious ache.

The voices have no owners. Like half tuned radio stations, overheard laughter in diners.

"You get her to first base?"

They were familiar. From some other time. Place.

"No. We lost her. She really lost herself."

"Really?"

"You could almost hear the sound of her breaking. Like empty wine glasses."

"Always empty."

A silence. "Always."

There's a warmth over my shoulders and I lean into it with a soft murmur. 

"It's not her pager is it?"

"If it is I'll get someone else to get it. She hasn't slept in days."

"Oh, and how would you know?"

A smirk. Another gentle pull on my shoulders, and then the feel of a warm breath on my neck. It tickles me with its warmth and I realize that I've been asleep.

"Abby. Abby? You're drooling Abby."

I pull my eyes open, and sink back against the seat, against the hands, which have began to tug and pull at the tension in my shoulders.

Dave's watching me with a light grin, his arms folded across his chest, he smiles at the figure standing behind me, which, from this angle,I'm guessing at either being Carter or a tall doctor with expensive taste in ties. 

"Sweet dreams?" Dave asks me before reaching out for the coffee pot.

I open my eyes wider. "Wasn't sleeping." I mutter, my voice rough with this 'not sleeping'. 

Dave shoots me a teasing smile. "Well I don't know Abby, snoring like that usually means you're asleep."

"I do not snore." I reply moodily.

He gives me another one of his smiles. "Whatever you say Abby." He's stirring the coffee into the cup, and then he shrugs his shoulder in the direction of the doorway, and the sound of an angry attending whose taken to screaming his name, and sighs, "Duty calls. Catch you later Abby, Carter."

Carter mutters a friendly goodbye, and I'm left alone, Carter's hands expertly hunting down wounded and tired muscles. I'm still adjusting to consciousness, pursuing reasons as to why I'm lying in a standard issue hospital seat in the lounge when I'm sure I really should be doing something else.

"How long...?"

I can feel him shift behind me, and then he murmurs, "Seventeen minutes..."

"Seventeen minutes." I mutter, letting the words grip hold of my consciousness. "Seventeen minutes? Seventeen minutes." 

Only seventeen minutes? Not enough. Not nearly.

I'm not sure if this is a good or a bad or a neutral thing. 

And then it's bad. I pull my hands through my tired hair, which I'm sure is doing all sorts of freakish things right now, and groan.

"I had to discharge. Mr...Bradley?... Bradson?... Brandson?"

"Mr. Branadon?"

"Mmmmhhmm."

His voice is light and easy. He slept last night. "I think Luka discharged him a couple a minutes ago. And Weaver thinks you're with a cigarette."

"Is it busy?"

"Like a beehive."

I sigh again and give in to being awake. Taking a deep breath, and shrugging at my shoulders, which Carter seems to be growing too fond of, I rub at my face. "I think I slept funny."

His voice is light and teasing. Comforting. "Don't sell yourself short Abby. You were a riot." 

I smile and don't move to leave. His hands are busy comforting the pain and sadness that lurks in tight little bundles around my neck. "Mmm...you should get a license for those hands."

His fingers find one angry bundle, and begin to tease at it. I moan contentedly. "There?" He asks.

"Mmmmmmhmm," I nod and tilt my head so that he has better access to it. I'm surprised at how easily this comes to me. How little it takes for me to feel comfortable around him. I forget when this happened. "Don't you have places to go Carter?"

He pauses. Thinks. "Mrs. Jacobs wants me to change her daughters diapers... Missy Roberts wants me to sing her a song or she really just 'won't stop screaming' and Weaver wants me to get her some coffee. Two sugars, black."

I pause, my voice still sore from sleep. "She hates this as much as you do Carter. You should enjoy it while it lasts. Take up a new hobby. Catch up on some daytime TV."

Sighing, he moves to continue with his demanding chores. The coffee machine can be quite the bitch to work. My back feels like a hundred elephants just did the macarena over it. It's a nice feeling. 

The list of things that Abby should really be doing at this exact second in time circle in my head nauseatingly. Ignoring them I settle back into the stiff comfort that the hospital regulation seat offers. I make a mental note to myself to ask Weaver about these at some point. Some point when I'm up to speaking in whole consecutive sentences.

"Yeah, I guess I have been meaning to read the unedited edition of War and Peace. Toast?"

I smile at him as he hands me a cup of hot coffee and a slightly burnt piece of bread. "You really are too good to me Carter." 

"Someone has to be," he mutters, not looking up from the mug that he's filling.

I smile, avoiding his gaze, avoiding the subtext that no doubt accompanies that not as off-hand as it should have been comment. 

He bites at his lip as he watches me. "So, uh, they find your mother yet?"

I sigh, suddenly more awake. "Um, no. I gave the uh, the Nice Police Officers her details and they said that-"

_"-her name. Listen little lady, we don't care what kind of depressive she is, what's her *name*?-"_

_ _

"-they're really doing everything in their-"

_"-Godforsaken, almighty, holier than thou, -will somebody please answer that goddam phone already?-"_

_ _

"-Powers to find her, and I, uh, told them everything that I could about her-"

_"Brunette? You have any idea how many brunettes happen to live in the Chicago-Florida area? Hey Charlie send out a search party, we got a brunette on the loose-"_

_ _

"-what she's like, what she's likely to do, and uh, they told me not to-"

_"Sweat your pretty little face off, we'll stick her face on a milk carton and, -what? No reward?"_

_ _

"-worry about it, they're sure she's safe or they-"

_" -woulda found her naked brutalized body lying along some deserted highway some place-"_

_ _

"-would more than likely know about it."

Carter nods with a kind smile, "They're probably right. She's done this several times before and she's always come back."

But this time's different Carter. This time I had her arrested. This time the world is really rubbing my face in everything, and my mother's an easy target. This time I'm scared. 

"Yeah, I know. They should probably just follow the trail of broken windows, huh?"

He smiles as he leans back against the coffee counter, which is battered from the years of medical misuse. His beeper suddenly decides to join in our conversation. He throws it a dirty glance and groans. Some drunk probably peed where they shouldn't have, and no doubt he has to go make everything better and rosy fresh. "I don't suppose..."

I shake my head. "I like you Carter but not that much."

He nods, accepting his not so desirable fate, and with a flick of his hand and an eyes twinkling smile, he leaves.

* * * *
    
    "He believed in a door.He must find that door.The door
    
    was the way to...to...
    
    The Door was The Way.
    
    Good.
    
    Capital letters were always the best way of dealing with
    
    things you didn't have a good answer to."
    
     

- Douglas Adams, Hitchhiker's Guide

* * * *

From the back, with him silhouetted against the Chicagoan skyline like this, he could pass for just about any super hero going.

He's got those broad masculine shoulders that scream of protection and invulnerability. Many a girl has probably fantasized about being comforted by those shoulders, seeking refuge from the big bad world within those shoulders. Yep, he's got shoulder's that most action figurines can only dream of.

I move towards him slowly, each step measured by uncertainty. I don't say anything. But he doesn't see this. He's too preoccupied with some distant spot way off into the horizon that's invisible to the rest of us mere non-super heroes.

It's on days like these, with the fresh feel of the Windy City against my face, tugging at my hair and playing with my trousers, the sky a powder puff blue (which might be gray depending upon your outlook on life) that reminds me what exactly it is about the Roof that makes it hold such a powerful attraction to all us so-called medical professionals. It's like our magnetic North.

And, with the sticky feel of blood clinging to my combat gear, I'm reminded why this place is such a sanctuary. Blood doesn't smell quite like blood when your entire world consists of endless miles of sky. Scientists will probably tell you that it's because of the lack of oxygen at however many feet we are off the ground, and a million other rational physiological and psychological reasons as to why this is. But they're not Abby, and their favourite pair of shoes probably aren't drained to the sole with death. 

And that's why, if you ever happen to catch us up here, you'll have to excuse our distant far-away faces, and mumbled incoherencies about the meanings of life. It's the lack of oxygen, really. 

This is part of the reason behind my unwillingness to speak to Luka. 

And the other part? Well...that's mostly all the things that I'm holding out on saying to him. Confused? Multiply that feeling by infinity and then divide by two and you're somewhere along to how I'm feeling right now.

I lean up against the wall, purposefully aligning myself somewhere directly along his line of vision. He shifts his gaze towards mine, and smiles.

"What ya looking at?" I mutter, the far-off, meaningfully thoughtful look in his eyes fading mildly.

He takes in a gulp of air, shakes his head and smiles at me. Slightly. "Oh, nothing. Nothing to see."

I nod, as though this makes all the sense in the world to me. Which I guess it does, depending upon your outlook on life. "Weaver's threatening to make a winter coat with your ass."

He smiles, and this time his eyes remember to smile with them. "Yeah? How long have I been up here?"

"Forty five minutes." He nods slowly as though understanding the answer to one of the world's greatest mysteries. "And leaving your pager behind didn't impress her much either. You're pretty much at the very top of her lobotomy list. You're lucky Dave beat you to it by breaking the coffee machine."

He nods again. His eyes dancing from me, back across to that empty distance. 

I sigh, and lick my parched lips. I wait until he looks in my direction again. When I have this, have his interest, I shift my brows and begin to play with the buttons on his lab jacket. I can feel his eyes question me. 

I don't look at him. "Luka...everything OK?"

His shoulders square slightly. I know this because it's currently the only thing that exists in my universe. "Sure Abby."

I bite at my lip. I want to draw blood. Just to taste it. "And you would tell me if there was...if there was *anything*, right? If you weren't 'sure' that you were OK. You would tell me, right? Because...because I'd like it if you did. I mean, I wouldn't hold anything against you. You know that, don't you? ...You do know that Luka?"

His shoulders remain big bundles of tension. I distractedly consider sending him down to Carter, have him work his charm on his back, and then he can come back up here and *not* square his shoulders at me. 

He's silent. And my hands are smoothing out a crease in his shirt again and again, but the indentation remains, and no amount of teasing or pulling has any affect whatsoever upon it.

Abby?

I look back up at him. His eyes are large and silent.

It's nothing Abby.

OK?

I nod, and he leans in...

...and I push him away, and tell him that kissing is not an answer to every question. That we're two grown ups with bank accounts and retirement plans and favourite types of coffee and kissing is not an acceptable way to answer a question...

I want to tell him this. I don't.

And then Abby and Luka kiss, and then Luka asks Abby if Abby wants him to pick her up after work, and if there is enough milk in the fridge at home, and then he tells me that he should probably be going.

And I watch him leave.

And say nothing.

My pager suddenly begins its wail.

Picking it up, I look at the numbers, and for reasons and logic that I don't have shove it against the floor with such force that it shatters into millions of pieces with a final fizzling stutter.

And I don't say anything. 

* * * *

"Stop the World, I want to get off"

-Charlie Brown

* * * *

The cup of coffee sits in front of him and I'm reminded of how much of a part of his life coffee has become. The two are inseparable these days. It's a wonder he ever sleeps. Not that I can talk.

He's ignoring it at this very moment. Not even a hello or a kiss goodbye. They obviously have that kind of relationship. Use me and then come back when you need another cheap rush of awakeness.

Not that I can talk.

Sighing. I look back up at him. He's looking smaller and smaller as he talks. As though I'm watching this from a moving train, leaving him behind. Maybe I am.

His eyes are cast downwards, not in the direction of me, or the coffee. A stain on the table has his undivided attention.

I keep forgetting to nod my head and smile on time.

He talks and then he doesn't.

He keeps forgetting that I'm listening.

He's telling me. He doesn't know what to do. He's been so good. He can maintain this stance. He can. He needs to. But. But. But. He's so tempted. He's scared. The world keeps forgetting that it owes him. He's been so good. Why? He did his time. He paid. Sold his soul. Sold his future. Made a million different deals with a million laughing devils. He's not an addict. He's a survivor. There's a difference, right Abby? He doesn't know what to do. He's too tempted. He's scared. God, he's scared.

I'm listening. The coffee is listening. The stain on the table is listening.

And none of us says anything. We want to. We want to hold out our hands and chase all the dragons away. We want to make a deal with a devil.

I sigh. This is the second time in the longest week of my life that he's been on addictions doorstep. I quote him the manual during the short breaks when he comes up for air and remembers his audience. I quote him, tell him that this is a forever thing. Tell him he's doing good. What am I supposed to say. They don't have chapters on how to chase dragons. I've checked.

He doesn't like telling me these things. I can see it hurts.

And I don't know what to tell him. I don't know what words of wisdom I have left to offer.

So I listen. We all listen. 

And I don't say anything about Luka. It isn't his turn.

He had been sitting up against an exam room, his face a familiar shade of gray. I was on a fifteen-minute breather. So I said 'coffee?'

And then we were sitting in this booth, the end one with the comfiest seats, at Doc McGoos. Irritating waitresses waiting for Steven Spielberg to whisk them off their feet hovering around us like vultures. 

A patient had died. Not a new thing. She had been seventeen, on her way to being an amazing artist, her mother tells him. Not a new thing. But the finger of blame had still been there. The feeling, that, on some cosmic level, out of all the doctors and nurses and paramedics who had held her hand, he was the one who had failed.

And then he said it. The words that no ex-junkie is ever supposed to confess to. He needed it. He keeps forgetting how to deal with life without it. The colours are too sharp. The world is in focus. He can see stains. The pain comes in sharp focus. The blame.

Blame, Guilt and Addiction share the same phone line. When one is called upon, the rest will know. And then they wait their turns patiently. And then, when you're breaking apart inside, and your busy picking up all the pieces, they'll attack. As one.

And it's hard.

God it's hard.

He's stopped talking, and he's looking at me. The audience is swapping seats.

It's OK Carter. It is. I tell him this. I tell him that he's not failing. He's being strong. He's amazing. I don't tell him that I'm not. I'm failing. Abby's sinking into the gentle whispers. And I remind him that he knows my name. It's his. Whenever he hears the whispers he can come straight to me. And I'll do what I have to do. I'm a dragon slayer, doesn't he know?

And he thanks me, with an awkward tip of his head, an awkward smile, his hand finding an interesting itch on the very tip of his spine. He thanks me, remembering that I'm here, that I've heard everything. 

I know. 

He wonders whether this is a good thing.

I wonder whether this is a good thing.

He listens to the beeping emanating from his waist, and looks at me with questions in his eyes. Are we leaving it at this? The wounds are still open and bleeding, and he wonders how he can close them. Leave them neat and tidy for confessions on Sunday.

I shake my head, and tell him it's OK. I'll pay for the coffee. He's needed.

And so the coffee and I are left to cool off.

And I forget to tell him.

Dragons scare me.

* * * *

"I wouldn't bother trying to top last night's record."

The bartender tells me too sarcastically.

I give him a look. A highly charged, don't piss me off, you have been warned, look, and he quickly finds something else to do, someone else to make cheap alcohol blurred conversation with.

Taking a seat, I tell a female bar mistress to hit me with a tequila shot.

She smiles and soon I'm confronted with another glass, filled with fate and dragons and love and hate and bunnies and kitties. The world would probably look great through that glass.

Sighing, and pursing my lips together I pick it up.

And I need to know if this is the way that it will end.

* * * *

"A million decisions seem to be in flight

I quest the me where they travel at night

Screaming it's just your tv guide

That's the only logical answer.. right?"

-Drink Bizarre, PM Dawn

* * * *

They say this is right.

Turning up at people's doorsteps at ungodly hours with extra cheese pizzas and a million things that you don't know how to say.

They say this is healthy.

I'm having my doubts.

His apartment is in the good part of Chicago. Where drive bys and drug bingeing exist only by reputation from TV and those Bad Movies that star men with broad shoulders and limited vocabularies. To *most* of the people living here, anyway.

I knock on his door again and within minutes there's a sound of latches being opened, and then he's blinking at the synthetic brightness of the outside world, and rubbing at his forehead.

His eyes slant downwards as recognition dawns on him. 

I'm Abby.

Carter wasn't expecting me. Not at night. Not at three am in the morning. Not when he has bed-hair. Not when his expensive tie hangs loosely from his neck and his shirt's rumpled and not as buttoned up as it should be.

His eyebrows are still raised in a silent salute. Silent appraisal. Not angry. Not uncomfortable. Not hostile. Merely surprised. Embarrassed at the state of his hair.

As if noticing this, he drags a hand through his ruffled mane, but this only charges his hair particles further and they stand up on end, a silent acknowledgment of my presence.

"Abby? Uh, what are you doing here?" I smile and hold up the pizza. He gives it a puzzled look, and then shifts this look back to me. "Pizza?"

Congratulations, you have just won a year's supply of Bryl Cream.

"Yeah, I, uh, couldn't sleep. I gave you a call but no one picked up...Is this a bad time? I can go..."

I turn and begin to leave the warmth of the apartment and him behind.

His hand's on my shoulder, and I turn back, to find him smiling.

"No, I just, I was just trying to get some sleep." Suddenly, it makes sense to him; my being here, my pizza offering, it makes sense. He nudges his hand in the direction of his apartment. He watches me for a second or two longer, and then his smile grows.

"You wanna come in?"

I sigh. "Yeah, that would be great."

* * * *

--


	6. Admitting Defeat

Past Dances and Future Tears:

Admitting Defeat

Category: Abby Angst. And maybe a casual 'R' for language.

Disclaimers: The only thing I lay claim to is my over active imagination. Dueling Banjo's has been hummed, whistled and banjo'd by many a person. Too many a person for me to go over. It's not mine. I'm learning to deal with it.

Author's Notes: I'm supposed to be writing up a chemistry report. Shhhh, don't tell anyone I'm here. 

All kinds of feedback appreciated with open arms:) 

angelpixiedust@bolt.com

Oh, and I could really kill for some Pop Tarts. 

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"Some people are afraid of what they might find if they try to analyze themselves too much. But, you have to crawl into the wounds to discover what your fears are. Once the bleeding starts, the cleansing can begin." 

-Tori Amos

-----------------------------------------------------------------------

I awaken to the sounds of someone humming 'Dueling Banjo's.'

I lazily open my eyes, shading them quickly with one hand from the glare of a badly positioned fish tank, and I slowly glance around at my surroundings.

It takes me a second to remember that I don't own any fish.

And then another second of glancing around in a sleepy daze to remember where I am.

"...Carter?"

Footsteps. Then he's leaning against his kitchen door, wearing the same clothes that he was wearing last night. His shirt sleeves are rolled up and I distractedly think that's it's going to take more than a month of ironing to remove all the creases. He smiles when he sees that I'm awake. Alive. "Morning Abby. Sleep OK?"

"Uh..."

His smile broadens. "Hungry?"

"Um..."

I drag a hand through my hair. My language skills are pretty limited in the mornings. Ask Luka. Ask all those poor patients I get lumped with after Weaver hauls my sorry ass out of an exam bed. 

"I got pancakes, eggs, bacon, Frosties, Coco Pops, leftover cheese pizza, saline IV..."

I smile at him. It's hard to take him seriously when his hair's doing that. It stands spiky straight on his head. I'm tempted to tell him so that I can go back to concentrating on breakfast, but then I decide that I like it this way. Makes him look young and care free. Like he's never seen a bad day in his life.

"...morphine, coke, orange juice, bananas, some apples, pop tarts and..." he glances back into the kitchen, "...a couple of Ding Dongs."

"Uh..." Focus Abby. Food Abby. Hungry Abby. "Coffee...and lots of it."

He nods slowly, a boyish smile on his face. "Uh, black, no sugar, right?"

I nod, and sink back against the warmth of the blankets on his couch. I don't remember them being there last night. "Thanks Carter."

I hear his socked feet fading against the oak floor, and then he resumes his rendition of 'Dueling Banjo's.' 

I smile. Cute Carter, but wrong state. 

The remains of the pizza lie carelessly against a coffee table, next to too many cups of coffee and an open box of crackers. The TV is still providing a comfortable murmur of background noise. Several midget lesbians of colour are beating each other to the death with clunky heels and obligatory chairs as Jerry Springer mutters the occasional comment on relationships being difficult from a safe distance. We all should learn to listen to each other. Take the time out from our chair abuse and listen.

I remember that it had been on when I arrived last night. He feigned ignorance at knowing that he had been watching a Martha Stewart special and hastily found the remote whilst I smiled wryly at him from his couch. A discovery channel documentary on the mating habits of Japanese bullfrogs was next best choice. It's one of those doctor things.

I remember that he hadn't asked me why.

Behaved as though this was the most normal thing in the world for us to do together. Watch Japanese bullfrogs mate.

Maybe he's used to emotionally unstable brunettes turning up on his doorstep at ungodly hours with pizzas and smiles.

What would I have said even if he had?

-I don't like to be alone when my life is falling apart-

-Misery loves company and cheese pizzas-

I can hear him swearing over the sound of glass breaking. He's sure got some language. Competes with the beeping and imaginative uses of other people's mother's on TV. 

A pause and then more 'Dueling Banjo's.'

I smile.

I don't know how exactly I had ended up as I did last night.

We had been discussing the merits of kidney transplants in systemic lupus erythematosis patients over slices of cheese pizza and decaffeinated coffee. It's another one of those doctor things. Strange exotic diseases suddenly become great dinner conversation topics.

And I remember that my mind had been on anything but pizza and kidneys.

He had asked me an innocent question. Something like, "You really think so?" 

And I had replied, with. 

"I hate my life."

His pizza slice had hovered near his mouth, and his eyebrows slanted upwards, and I remember that he focused on me. Entirely. Every cell in his body, just listening to me.

Way to kill a conversation Abby.

And I couldn't stop. Everything just seemed to come out. Escaping through my mouth without me having any control, any power to stop it, and I remember forgetting that he was there as I continued.

"I mean I hate it. I do. 

I hate myself.

I hate that word.

I *hate* that word.

**A-l-c-o-h-o-l-i-c**

"My name's Abby and I'm an alcoholic."

"My name's Abby and without alcohol I'm not a whole person."

They say that admitting you have a problem is the hardest part.

That standing up in front of a roomful of dysfunctional people and admitting that that's what you are, that's all you are is the hardest part and then after that everything will become peachy keen.

"Gee whizz, I'm an alcoholic, guess I better just stop shoveling those martinis then."

And that's the story. 

Full stop.

Happily ever after.

Full stop.

And then it's the first day of the rest of your life.

Full stop.

The End.

Except it's not.

You have to live every day for the rest of your life sober. Not just two days out of every month when you're busy being passed out in a deserted ally way next to some bar.

Every single fucking day.

And it starts slowly at first. You don't have enough money for the rent one month. You lose a patient. You slip up on a diagnosis. The coke machine won't give you a coke. Your ex-husband reminds you why you divorced him. You hate pink scrubs. You know what being murdered looks like. The people you care about don't care about you back. Your mother pays you a never-ending visit. You forget when you didn't wake up alone.

And it's so easy.

It could all be so easy.

And it's like the anti-orgasm, everything just keeps building up and up, and you need a release, god you need a release, you need it so bad that you don't care about all the where's and how's and why's, who you hurt, what you're supposed to be doing, and you wait for the release, and it doesn't come Carter, it *never* comes."

And my throat had been sore, and my eyes were swelling with tears and I was standing up, and he had stood up, and I remember the warmth of his arms as they came up around me, and him telling me that it was OK. And I had been so angry at myself, and so angry at everything that I had lashed out.

Pushed him away as I continued, "No, this isn't OK. Nothing is OK. This is hell. I don't know what I'm doing. I'm so close to the edge Carter, and this isn't fucking OK."

And then I hit him.

Not a graceful, well rehearsed coke machine punch but a fast and angry and hurt and alcoholic punch. And I continued to hit him, and he had raised his hands passively and let me. Just let me.

And I kept hitting him. Against his chest, his abdomen, his shoulders, over and over again, anywhere my hands could reach.

"What the hell is wrong with me, huh? I can see that he's burning up inside, I can see him completely breaking, I can, and he won't tell me, he won't tell me anything, and he never does and I don't know what to say any more. It's not OK. It's not. Oh god. Just what the hell is wrong with me?! What. The. Fuck. Is. Wrong. With. Me."

I couldn't hear myself over the screamed-sore tears. 

Then my rage faltered, and my hands faltered, and I stopped, weakened and spent and he slowly reached out his arms around me, to surround me, fully, completely. And then I was crying into his chest and he was whispering softly and kissing my hair.

'It's OK, just let it all out Abby, I know, I'm here Abby, just let it all out, I'm here, I'm not going anywhere.'

I reached my arms around his neck and pulled him against me, as I sobbed. Heaving sobs that wracked my whole body. The tears were hot and I was cleansed by their fire.

And I was waiting for him to just push me away, and laugh at me, at this strange angry crying thing that I had become, I was waiting for him to quote me the handbook, and tell me that I was normal, that everything I was feeling was normal. 

And he didn't.

I remember apologizing. Asking if he was OK.

And he had chuckled lightly, his arms around me, my head buried into the deep pool of Abby Pain on his chest.

"I'm OK. I never liked this shirt much anyway."

I had laughed into his chest. And I remember how strange it had sounded. How foreign. 

And I must have been so exhausted from being angry and being hurt that I had just fallen asleep like that. My head against his chest, as he kissed my damp hair and whispered that he was there, and Abby should just let it all out, he was there, and he wasn't going anywhere.

He doesn't see it. His strength. If he did he'd probably be just as amazed by it as I am.

He should be bitter. He has an obligation to the world to be bitter. He earned the rights to bitterness.

But he's not.

I sigh, and pull myself into a standing position. My body misses the warmth of the couch instantly. I walk into the kitchen slowly, sluggishly, and silently sit back on one of his chairs.

He's still doing the 'Dueling Banjo's' thing. Apparently he's quite the morning person. He's sucking on a finger as he turns to see me. Smiling he hands me the coffee and I accept it with as big a smile as I can muster in my semi-conscious state.

He turns back to pick up a box, and then he offers me something from inside it. "Pop tart?"

I shake my head. 

This earns me a Look. "You're not turning down something with absolutely no nutritional value whatsoever are you? Because if you were I'd really start worrying about you."

I smile and give in, picking one up. I take a bite from the corner to keep him happy. It tastes like flavored sawdust. A slight upgrade from the sawdust flavored culinary dishes provided by the hospital. 

I feel bad about his shirt. Apart from the creases, and slept-in look it's also stained with my hurt. It's unwearable. Yet another casualty of my life.

He's still sucking on his finger.

"Can I see it?" I say, already up and walking towards him. 

He smiles, confused, "See what?"

"Your finger," and I gently reach out and wait for him to offer it to me.

He shrugs and does as I ask. "It's nothing."

It's about a centimeter deep and bleeding aggressively. I look back up at him, nurse Abby mode kicking in. "Ouch, I think I can probably do sutures with my eyes closed. You mind?"

He shrugs again. "It's really nothing-"

"Then you won't mind." I get the directions to where his first AID kit is and then on finding it, I return, and pull up a chair next to him. 

"This won't hurt a bit," I mutter as I insert the needle. 

He pulls a face. "Says you."

I smile. "Says me."

We're both silent. Pull, inert, pull, insert, pull, insert. I realize that he's said something and I look up.

"You should tell him."

I quickly look back down at his wound. I sigh. "He's...he's not big on talking."

He's gnawing on his lower lip. Which means that he's going to say something brutally honest. 

"Maybe...maybe he needs to talk to someone else."

He winces as I dig the needle in again. Oh, that didn't hurt you did it? Bad me. 

Another sigh. "Maybe."

A silence settles over us. I can feel his eyes on me. I don't look up.

Insert, pull, insert, pull.

"Your hair's cute Carter."

I can feel his eyebrows raise several degrees. "Cute?"

His other hand instantly moves to de-cute his hair.

"Yeah, makes you look younger."

He's definitely smiling now. His voice is absolutely brimming with a smile. "Really?"

Pull, insert, pull, insert.

I look up to find his wide brown eyes looking at me with amusement and something else that I can't quite define. "Uh-huh."

He smiles again. Our eyes catch for several seconds and I become aware of how close we are. Too close.

And he's about to say something else when a phone begins to ring out. We both look away and then back. He gnaws on his lip, "I'm gonna go..."

I nod and let him take his hand away from me, and he pads out of the kitchen. The phone stops ringing and I can hear him speaking into it. I sigh and close the suture kit. 

Carter's right. Luka needs to talk to someone. And, I sigh, I guess I'm just not that someone. 

I sigh again, and concentrate on a pattern on the Med AID box. I think about Luka, about where we stand. Not that I haven't been asking myself these same questions during the past few weeks. I concentrate harder. As though if I concentrate hard enough I'll find the meaning to life inscribed somewhere in the letters A and I and D.

I remember walking into his dimly lit room last night, after my shift had ended. He was lying on his bed staring up at the water stained ceiling. He had looked round at me. Smiled weakly. I had returned it. "Um, I think I'm gonna go for a walk. You need anything at the k-mart? No? You sure? I think you're running out of cheese. No? Ok. Well, um, don't wait up for me OK? ...Night."

I had the best intentions of sharing my night with several bottles of tequila. The best intentions of never waking up alone again.

I don't think that I had cared anymore. About the consequences. About my liver. 

Instead I found myself in a small Italian diner, asking about what different kinds of cheese they had, telling the happy overweight chef that I was spending the night in with my fiancé. Oh, sure, a movie, ice cream the works. He proposed to me this morning. Yeah, we're getting the ring tomorrow. Thanks, I'll remember to tell him.

The pizza was still warm when I found myself knocking on his door. I'd been to his apartment a few times before, to pick him up or drop him off from AA meetings. I remember it being cold and I remember both wanting him to be home and wanting him to be a million miles away.

I remember being scared.

Of...

"...Abby?" I look up. Carter's standing at the door with a strange look on his face. "Um, Abby, you're wanted on the phone."

I pause. "Huh?"

"Your mobile, it was ringing, and I answered. I'm sorry."

I shake my head and smile, dismissing his apology and pick up the outstretched phone. "Who is it?"

"County Police."

I can feel my mouth become dry. The blood drain from my face. I remember to breathe before I speak. "Um, hello. Yes, this is her...Oh...oh my god. Yes. I'll be down there in...in, um, I'll be down in half an hour. No. It's OK. Thanks. Thanks, bye."

Carter's still watching me intently. 

I can't move. Every muscle in my body has forgotten how to work.

Oh god.

"Uh, they, they found a body Carter. They... they want me to ID a body." I shift into automatic. "Can I...can we take your car?"

He's nodding slowly and all the concern in his face forms a little crease on his forehead.

"Sure Abby."

I turn around, walk into the kitchen, past the wine of the TV, pick up my discarded jacket, and then stop.

I can feel Carter come up behind me.

Before he has the time to reach me, and say something comforting, and appropriate and reassuring, I open the door and step outside.

I remember how cold it is. 

And how comforting that was.

*************

Continued...


	7. Secret Blues

'Past Dances and Future Tears:'

Secret Blues

Rating: PG-13 or R depending on your language sensitivity

Disclaimers: I own all the punctuation marks and funneely spelt words.

Author's Notes: Still not done with all the Abby melodrama. Hopefully you're not either:)

-----------------------------------------------------------------------
    
    "Every heart has its secret sorrows which the world knows not, and
    
    often time we call a man cold, when he is just sad."

-Longfellow

-----------------------------------------------------------------------

You can smell it from here.

The formaldehyde.

It's like the sticky after taste of death. It stains the air and clings to your clothes. I think that I'm never going to be able to wash it out. That this smell is going to haunt my clothes as well as my soul for as long as I live. I'm stained with it. Death has stamped me with its sticky presence.

Our footsteps are hollow and echoless. The hallway has been fitted with a green carpet and I think that it's an ugly colour. That it's the ugliest colour that I've ever seen.

He keeps talking.

Feels that because he's wearing a badge and because he's holding the keys that he's somehow obligated to fill in all the silences. I want to tell him to shut up. I don't need my silences filled with empty basketball predictions and intuitive weather scores. 

I tighten my grip on Carter's hand. 

His hands are rough and aged from too much caring and too many hygiene regulations. They remind me of my father's hands. Large and warm and real. The heat from his hands seeps into mine, warming them.

I look back up at him.

His face is ashen. The same little crinkle of concern in his forehead. I would have assumed that he was used to all this. The smell of dead people. And I think that maybe it's my death grip on his hand that's causing him to turn gray. Maybe he's losing the feeling in his hand.

I loosen my grip and this prompts an immediate look from him.

I've broken the spell. The silent comfort the linkage provided is going to go now and the spell will be broken.

I remember stepping out of the car, and all of the oxygen suddenly draining from my lungs. I remember suddenly regretting that Pop Tart and most of the last decade. I had looked down to find his hand slipping into mine, and I remember how warm he was, how cold I was and how warm he was. 

His eyes tell me that everything's OK. Abby doesn't have anything to worry about. We're OK.

And I can feel his hand squeeze my own.

He's stopped. Our Death Tour Guide has stopped moving and is now filling the silence with the sound of metal on metal keys. And I wonder why it is that the room is locked. Wonder what the statistics are of dead people breaking out.

I try to lick my lips but my mouth is just as dry. And my hands are cold and clammy, and my body is too cold from the sub-zero temperatures needed to keep the bodies from rotting and decomposing around us. I shiver involuntarily under my jacket.

He's giving us a look. Our self-appointed Tour Guide.

He's telling me that I can stay in there as long as I feel comfortable to. That he's going to be standing right outside if I should need any help. That I can touch it if I feel the need to. The toilets are two doors down if I need them. Water? Do I want water? I'm looking a little pale; maybe I want something to eat. He's got a pickle sandwich on his desk if I want it. Maybe I should sit down. Do I need to sit down?

I shake my head.

He looks at Carter for back up. I'm obviously going to break apart, being the little lady that I am, and he now feels that he's responsible for all my pieces. I want to tell him to shut up. I want to tell him that his carpet's really ugly and that his suit's really tacky and ask him if he would please shut the hell up.

I can feel Carter shake his head.

He raises an eyebrow, as though this is just another sign of the apocalypse, and then, with one bushy eyebrow still raised, stands by the door and looks at me expectantly. As though I'm about to walk in there and raise her from the dead.

I look back up at Carter whose busy watching me, his thumb gently rubbing at my hand. I feel as though I should say something. Offer something. Because. Because this scares me. Because I'm so scared. Because the smell of death is going to linger on his clothes and on his hair and on his soul forever. 

He's been branded with Death too.

He shakes his head, at me, at the confusion and fear that my trembling hands belly, and silently, without me having time to question it, leans down and kisses my forehead.

He strokes the hair away from my eyes and smiles gently. 

And his eyes tell me that no matter what lies beyond that door, he's here, and everything's OK.

I pull away from him, and turn to face the cheap door, and I concentrate on breathing. 

In, out. 

Inflate, deflate. 

Like I tell all my scared-to-tears patients when I'm about to do something horribly painful to them. Like you tell the kid at the back of the class who hyperventilates because he's allergic to chalk dust. 

Breathe Abby.

And, I avoid the shitty grin that the man with the badge and the keys offers me in an attempt to make my world easier, to make my silences more comfortable.

And then, I'm inside.

* * * *

Oh my god.

The record player in my mind is stuck and those are the only words that I can find to define how I feel.

Oh my god.

And then I'm running.

Because. Because my legs were rusty from being so scared and so cold.

And I'm giggling. To myself as I run. Giddy with the new surge of adrenaline and how Un-Abby like this running is. I think that I probably look crazy. Brunette skidding through the halls of a Police station, the part where they house all the question-marked dead people, giggling and running, my clothes all wrinkled and slept in and my face screwed up with adrenaline. I think I probably look scary.

An old gentlemen I pass tells me to slow down, ladies shouldn't run like that. And I think that he's right. If we all ran like this it wouldn't be quite so much fun running like this.

And then I break free into the outside world. The air smells fresh. It hasn't been tainted with death. The sky reminds me of a William Blake painting that I remember seeing in College. Sky with puffy white clouds set into a blue-blueness, a dragon lurking in the corner. Waiting. But you didn't see it. You were too busy sinking into the blues.

He's standing next to his car. I think I knew that he would be. He's so tall that you can see his head from here. I continue to run.

He's smoking a cigarette, playing with it in his hands as the toxins creep into the blues of the sky.

He looks up and the cigarette falls from his hand. Dead smoke fizzling upwards. He smiles at me as I approach. Smiles in that place just after knowing and before understanding.

My arms curl around his back and I pull him towards me. I'm still all smiles and candy laughter. He's so warm I think as he leans forward and lifts me up slightly, his arms enclosed around my back, and he's laughing too.

"She's OK Carter. It was an old lady. It wasn't her. Oh my god. She's OK."

He smells faintly of coffee beans and sleep and cheese pizza.

I lean back and grin again. His warm brown eyes grin back at me.

Oh my god.

I'm only aware afterwards.

Of how his lips feel against mine. Of how cool and ashy his lips tasted. Of the way I could feel him become tense and then surrender within half a second. Of how his mouth tasted after his lips just weren't enough. Aware of how easy it was.

Oh my god.

I should really get someone to see about that record player.

I grin and pull him back against me. Maybe he didn't notice. Maybe I imagined that. Maybe I'm still asleep some place where I didn't just do that.

I'm still smiling. Can still feel his lips and his smell and his warmth.

Oh...fuck?

I pull back slowly, hesitantly, avoiding his gaze and therefore relying on my peripheral vision to relay back his expression. He's smiling. Which could mean that We're OK. Or that he just passed gas.

"Um...so," I drag a hand through my lazy hair. "I think I'm gonna have to, um, go back home, change or something..."

He's still smiling. Looking at me and avoiding me at the same time. There's a slight pause. "Yeah... OK, um, we can take my car?"

I nod, and all my smiling is beginning to hurt my jaw.

I slowly slide into the seat next to him, the sounds of us pulling on the seat belts and getting comfortable in his seats filling his car.

I smile again as we ease out into the main road. Turning to glance at him. He's watching me. I smile again. "Thanks Carter...for um, for this. Thanks."

He smiles and shakes his head. Anytime Abby. "It was...nothing Abby."

I nod, and turn to watch the world fade into a blur outside the car. I can't believe that just happened. I can't believe I just made that happen. The self-imposed silence begins to unnerve me. "So...seen any good movies lately?"

"-You kissed me."

I glance at him quickly and then back at the road. He's pursing his lips and not looking at me. "You kissed me back."

A pause. I can feel a layer of sweat begin to form along my neck. "You kissed me first."

I smile. Great, now we're playing You Did It, No You Did.

"...You're right. I shouldn't have. I guess...I just got carried away with the moment. I mean. I did. I got carried away. Can we just forget about it?" 

Sure, because that's exactly what I'm going to do. Just forget. What were we talking about anyway?

More silence. And I want to die. I want the world to open up and swallow me whole. I can see the police reports now:

POLICE: This ever happen before?

CARTER: No, not that I know.

POLICE: And the ground just opened up?

CARTER: Pretty much.

POLICE: No kissing or crazy mothers and reclusive lovers involved?

CARTER: Now that you mention it...

He's drumming lightly against the driving wheel. Eyes focused dead-on.

"It's OK." He says his voice low and easy. It's the same reply I get when I ask him if he needs any more IV stands or saline sachets, no, no, I'm OK, really.

I nod. The silence filling the nooks and crannies around us. Threatening me to say something or else it will.

I ignore it and let the silence settle awkwardly over us as until we reach my apartment. He pulls into a parking space with ease, and then turns to look at me. 

I look back at him. Notice the way his hair hangs limply across his head when it hasn't been combed and styled into perfection. Noticing the sleepy bags of gray under each eye. He has those clichéd puppy dog eyes. Large and wide and lost. I wonder how many girls have lost themselves in their depths. How many survivors?

Sighing I release myself from his seat belt. My hand is on the door handle when I stop and turn to look at him. He's said something.

"Mhmm?"

"Talk to him."

My body hesitates.

"I will."

"Tell him."

"...'Going to."

"Everything."

"...You want that in blood Carter?"

He smirks lightly. "Do I need it in blood?" 

I shake my head, swishing his door open and letting a stream of fresh air in. I step outside. "No. No you don't."

And then his car's just another blip on my blue horizon.

* * * *

"Abby?"

God. It's two small syllables and yet I can still feel my heart shudder and putter in me. 

Luka's skin has taken on a ghostly glow. Lack of sunlight and love. He's wearing an old faded University of Michigan jumper that makes him look decidedly American. His face is mildly surprised at my presence.

"Yeah. It's me. So, you wanna let me in, or do you want come out here and join me?"

He smiles faintly and walks inside, I follow behind him. There's a pile of dishes in the sink, and a basketball game on the TV, the volume turned down low. A warm bottle of beer stands on his table. It's half empty. I can see the tip of another one poking out of the too-full trashcan.

He sits down on his bed. Looks up at me. I look back down at him.

I didn't have any shifts today. Carter's pulling a graveyard. Luka is theoretically supposed to be knee deep in the aches and pains of the masses. Carter's filling his shoes. I didn't even have to ask. He had dropped me off and I had intended to find my Mr Bubble and then maybe do some TV watching and coffee drinking. Intended anyway. Instead I was wandering the streets of Chicago aimlessly thinking, smoking cigarette after cigarette. I think I did this for four hours. 

Then I was here. With more intentions. 

I finally sigh, and sit down on a chair in the corner. We continue to stare at each other. Willing the other to speak first. No you, I insist, Uh-uh after you, I double dare you.

"How's everything going Luka?"

He shrugs lightly. "It's fine Abby."

Oh OK, see there I was thinking it wasn't, thanks for clearing that all up for me, must be going.

"You?"

I look up. His eyes are watching me. I search his. Is he looking for honesty? Is this how I'm going to do it. With a basketball game on in the background, in underwear that I haven't had the chance to change during the past few days. Smelling vaguely of western diners and high school staff rooms.

"Not so great...I..." I pause, "I'm worried about you Luka."

He pulls a self-deprecating face. "Yeah?"

"Mmhuh...Are you..."

I stop.

Breathe Abby.

"...happy?"

This catches both of us by surprise. His eyes fall downwards. His hands forming a little steeple. He almost looks as though he's praying. 

"...no."

His voice is a small whisper. A big confession crammed into two letters. My eyes suddenly feel themselves burning. 

I let the moment pass, before speaking. My eyes not looking at him.

"I used to think that maybe...maybe I could be enough. For the both of us. I hoped that I would be. I wanted to...so bad. I wanted to be there for you...for whatever it was that you needed." My eyes are wet. "I'm not." I try to smile. "I'm not enough for either of us. God I'm sorry."

He's shaking his head limply, his eyelashes stained with pain. He doesn't say anything.

"Abby..."

A confession crammed into two syllables. 

I cover the distance between us quickly, soundlessly. I stand over him and pull his head into my chest, into my warmth. I can feel his body shudder, as he silently breaks apart in my arms. I pull my arms around his shoulders and let him cry into me, let all his pieces fall against me.

And we remain like this until a cool morning light creeps under the blinds.

Our footsteps hollow and empty as we leave together.

* * * *

finite

And (as always) to be continued...


	8. Favourite Sins

'Past Dances and Future Tears:'

Favourite Sins

Rating: PG-13 for bad words and innuendo:)

Category: Abby Angst 

Disclaimers: My blockbuster video card doesn't cover anything contained within this story. I don't pay their salaries or spit-shine their shoes. I'm nothing. Don't worry about me. I'm OK.

Author's Note: I'm tying up all those pesky loose ends. This is an end of an end of sorts. Cryptic aren't I? Just get a mug of hot chocolate out and turn the lights down low. They were long over-due a puppy-dog tailed ending (well this was as good as, in my little world:).

The epilogue was inspired by something that Tori Amos once said and I'm thanking Bramble for that (for inadvertently inspiring me to ransack my Tori Amos quote archive:).

And before I trail off into that misty sunset I'm going to have to thank Samantha Caldwell for keeping me sane...well, sane*er*. I owe you too many Pop Tarts and smiley faces that I can be assed to type:)

-----------------------------------------------------------------------

"Healing takes courage, and we all have courage, even if we have to dig a little to find it."

-Tori Amos
    
    -----------------------------------------------------------------------

I think that it was the right time.

For letting go.

I think we both needed to.

The world was really beginning to dance on the atoms of our fingertips, and we were really close. We were both really close.

Luka's a silent warmth next to my shoulder. Keeling over slightly, his head resting on his hands, which are resting on his knees. My hand forming loose figure eights on his knee.

Ten minutes until Dr Keller sees him. 

He wanted this. He admitted as much when we had walked, hand in cold hand down the dark streets of Chicago. We didn't say much. We're not big on talk. But we said what needed to be said. All those words that clog up your pores and all those words that demand the right lighting and the right moon alignment to be said.

I wanted to give him more.

He didn't believe that he had more to give.

I said OK.

That's OK with me.

And I didn't break into a million pieces as I had anticipated.

I think I actually became a little more whole.

Feeding the infested and germ-breeding pigeons of Chicago was apparently the perfect setting for honesty. I told him about Carter. The part where he needed me. Where I think that I needed him. Not as the ex-junkie who I can play Battleships with during endless AA meetings and discuss all those alcoholic urges and needs. As the ex-junkie who I can talk to. About the stuff that clogs my pores and needs the rose tinted lighting. The guy who doesn't see alcoholic or daughter-of-crazy-mother tattooed across my face, although I'm pretty sure that it is.

He said that that was OK.

He said that I needed that. 

And he doesn't know what happened. He doesn't know why. He can't define anything. That scares him. 

I had smiled and said, that, admitting you have a problem is the hardest part, that admitting that you aren't OK is the hardest part.

After that everything becomes peachy keen.

I raise my head to look at him again. His hair hasn't yet been rendered defenseless by a thick layer of Bryl cream. It's wild and unkempt. Edgy and yet vulnerable. 

I like it like this.

Makes him look like he's never seen a bad day in his life.

"Luka Kovac?"

He looks up at the neatly primed psychiatrist, and then at me.

It may just be the newfound lighting, but, I swear that he looks a little more whole. I smile and lean in towards him, planting a small kiss on his forehead.

And my eyes tell him that everything's OK. He's here and everything's OK.

...Because sometimes everything doesn't have to be kitties and bunnies and peaches...sometimes it's alright for it to just be OK.

I continue to watch him. He's almost through the door. 

"Luka."

He turns to look back at me. 

I smile. "Your hair's cute."

He looks at me for a long second and then breaks out into a grin. He thinks about this for a couple more seconds and then nods slowly.

He's still smiling when he walks inside.

* * * *

  
"Life, I love you! All is groovy" 

–Paul Simon

* * * *

Every muscle in my body hates me.

They're all not-so-silently bitching about me. Why doesn't she just fucking sleep? How many hours of this does she think we can stand? Abbeeeee??

I ignore them all and open my locker. Each groan punctuated with a scrub shirt or a chart slamming against the empty lounge floor.

This place is getting to be home.

Ugh.

Hate my life. Hate my life. Hate my life.

I sigh, and pull on a fresh shirt that hasn't been soiled with blood or ectoplasm. My skin sighs with the luxury.

I turn to catch Dave giving me a leery look.

Great. Oh fucking great. 

To be honest I don't give a damn if he did just see anything incriminating and if he is just going to go home and use this mental image for one-to-one entertainment purposes. 

I'm not about to let him know this.

"Sorry didn't know you were in here."

Bet you didn't.

"S'OK." 

He's still got that leery look on his face. Wait. That's not entirely true. He's always got that leery look on his face.

"I didn't see anything in case you were wondering."

Wasn't.

"I wanted you to see Dave. I knew you were watching."

His eyes widen. He was walking across to the coffee counter. He isn't anymore.

"Yeah?" His voice breaks on the a. He clears his throat in an attempt to cover this.

I smile in a PlayBoy-esque manner (pouting naked innocence wrapped in Donna Karen leather feathers -I'm sure you know the one) and pull on my jacket. "Sure Dave. I've been meaning to tell you how I feel about you for too long. Watching you in your scrub shirt and *those* jeans. Lets face it Dave, you're sexy. I'm sexy. We should get together sometime...be sexy together."

He's trying to find his lungs.

"uh...i...ok"

The blood continues to drain from his face. I hate to think where it is collecting.

I smile again.

"Hey Carter."

Dave's head whips round to see Carter. He glances back at me. His eyes are fearful. His hand's jammed in that cookie jar. No. Not his hand.

"..."

I wink at him. "Looking forward to it Dave."

Dave finds his legs are still functioning and leaves quickly, metaphorical tail drooping between his legs.

I laugh quietly to myself. I've been meaning to do that for too long. I should have taped it. Jing Mei would have killed to see his face. Priceless.

Carter's giving me a concerned look. He's right. Maybe I am going crazy. 

I smile and begin to explain but then stop with a wave of my hand.

I sling my bag over my shoulder and sigh. I've been avoiding his company during the past few days. Giving him cheap, rushed excuses and apologetic smiles. He's called me too many times. I haven't returned any of them. 

What would I say?

That kiss we shared just after I discovered that my mother wasn't dead and before I held the man I thought I could love in my arms as he fell apart, well, it was nice. Thanks. Must do it again sometime. 

He opens his locker, and proceeds to pull his lab jacket off and his stethoscope and all that remains of his secret life as an amazing doctor. I wish people could see how amazing doctors are. I wish they could walk around supermarkets with little glowing halos and billowing organ music. They deserve it. Take one look at how screwed up they all are and how little money and respect they are given and you'll see it. They earned it.

"I didn't know you were on." He says whilst eyeing me from his locker.

"Um...yeah. Weaver called me in to help her out, Chunni has the flu. But, now I'm off, and my only intentions are of going home and curling up with my Mr. Bubble." I pause, "I don't know how I ever let Weaver talk me into working down here."

He smiles. "You're here the for the same reason that the rest of us are."

I pause and look at him. "To mend broken souls and do our small bit for the rest of humanity?"

He shakes his head wryly. "Nope, we're all here with the hopes that we may some day discover a new form of pus and get it named after us."

I smile. "Dreamer."

He grins and finishes with his perfectionist routine. His hair sitting in all the right places, his shirt looking starched and crisp. He cleans up pretty well for someone who only fifteen minutes ago was prancing around in baby sick. 

I'm not about to tell him that he was prancing around. 

"How's Maggie?"

"She's doing better now... She's back on her meds." I give him a small grin, "She sends you her love and kisses."

I can feel his eyebrows raise several degrees. "Ah, well I never turn down a Wyzinsky woman's offers of love and kisses."

I turn to catch the glimmer of playfulness in his eyes. It makes me smile. The realization. He's doing OK. He thinks he isn't and he has a long way to go in terms of recovery but he's doing OK.

"I've been calling you." He says a little woundedly after a while.

I don't look at him as I fill my mug. Concentrating on the little whirlpool that I create with my spoon. I want to apologize but I can't think of what I would be apologizing for. 

"Yeah?"

"Have I...did I do something...?"

I turn to eye him directly, and find his eyes performing laser surgery on my forehead. "No...no. It's just...I've been busy. Why, was there anything you wanted to talk about?"

He thinks about this for a bit, his eyes still focused on me. "No. No, just, y'know. Missed you."

He's five feet away from me and yet he's managed to knock all the wind out of my lungs. 

Missed you too Carter.

We're silent for a few moments, him busying himself with his unforgiving tie, and me, playing oh ye gode to the little Milky Way that I create with my spoon.

I hypnotize myself with this vortex. "You believe in forgiveness Carter?"

He raises his eyes to mine and then thinks for a second or two. "Depends...what kind?"

The vortex in my cup grows. "The kind that doesn't forgive back."

He watches me for a long second and then smiles faintly. 

"Sure Abby."

He continues to smile kindly, and moves to stand next to me. Reaching for a mug and crossing into my personal space.

"So...you had anything to eat?"

I think about this as I look at him. "Um...Dave shared some of his Twinkies with me during lunch."

The mug gets placed onto the coffee counter, and his eyes dart back to my face. "You like Chinese food?" 

"Chinese food?" I repeat as though discovering a new meaning in the word.

He frowns. "No? Well, we could just go down to this nice little jazz bar that I know." He leans in towards me conspiratorially. "We could get drunk on club sodas and bitch and wine about our miserable little lives together."

I grin at him apologetically. "You don't want me to disappoint my Mr. Bubble do you?"

He's giving me the puppy dog gaze. You know the one. The I-didn't-mean-to-pee-in-your-favourite-slippers-and-then-chew-on-your-favourite-sweater one. You know you know the one.

"I've just had...I'm just having A Day Carter. It's not you." I hesitate. Honesty. Currently my favourite deadly sin. "And I mean...I've been meaning to speak to you. About...about-"

"-The Kiss."

Honesty. Currently his favourite deadly sin.

"That. Right. But...I mean. Well..."

"You're wondering if it meant anything. How I feel about you?"

I watch him, my jaw deciding to obey the laws of gravity and sliding open. I nod slowly. "Um, well..."

"...Look, we can discuss that some other time..." he abandons the coffee, picks up his bag, slings it across his shoulder and then takes my surprised hand. "At least let me walk you home?"

"Walk me home?" This time I know there's another meaning in those words. 

"Sure. Walk you home."

I remain stubbornly against the coffee counter. "That's two miles out of your zip code Carter."

He shrugs, and continues to pull on my waning resistance. He's giving me that Look again. Damn that Look. "Um...And we can get a Taco Bell? I have a real craving for Taco Bells."

He grins warmly. "Yeah. Sure. Taco Bells. C'mon."

And the lounge door slams shut behind the sound of inevitable change. 

* * * *

"This isn't the end, nor is it the beginning of the end. It's the end of the beginning."

-Anon.

* * * *

Epilogue

* * * *

Loneliness and I never used to be on speaking terms.

We'd share the same bed, eat the same breakfast cereal and love the same people, but we'd never actually exchange anything other than grunts and the occasional spiteful gaze. We were each waiting for the other to back down, the other to admit defeat, and then we would dance over their corpses, the winner of some historic and bitter war. Blood was never spilt and words were never exchanged, but, it was the most painful battle that I've ever experienced. 

I used to believe that I could hide her. Under smiles and rumpled bed sheets and brown paper bottles of distilled comfort. I used to believe that she could be hidden. That she *should* be hidden.

She isn't any more.

I can't explain when we undertook speaking terms, or where this silent agreement took place. I think that maybe it started slowly. Maybe I had smiled at her once, and maybe she had returned it. Maybe we had discussed the weather and her favourite colour over coffee. Maybe it had been me that had invited her into my life first, or maybe it was she who had done it.

It isn't important.

She's me in every way that I am her.

And you can't hide who you are. Not even with fifteen shots of vodka and the shortest black dress you can find. Trust me. She's still there. And you shouldn't hate who she is. Who you are.

We even go shopping now. Read books and bore ourselves to sleep on infomercials together. 

And I no longer have to watch my back for her. Look out for her under my bed sheets. Stay awake at night fearing her company.

I mean.

She really knows some great shoe shops.

* * * *

"A lot of times, the animal that bit you, you have to go and commune with that animal to release the poison, to release that bite, to understand the infection that it causes."

-Tori Amos

*finite*

All done. Any comments and/or warm food can be sent along to: [angelpixiedust@bolt.com][1] where it will be greeted by joyous dancing:)

   [1]: mailto:angelpixiedust@bolt.com



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